A Memoir of Jane Austen

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A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN

TOGETHER WITH

•LADY SUSAN': a Novel

LOXDON ! PRINTED BY

SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE

AND PARLIAMENT STREET

- .Jiu, .

A MEMOIR

OF.

JANE AUSTEN

BY HER NEPHEW

J. E. AUSTEN LEIGH

FOURTH EDITION
TO WHICH IS ADDED

LADY SUSAN

AND FRAGMENTS OF
TWO OTHER UNFINISHED TALES BY MISS AUSTEN

LONDON

RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET

publishers in Orb'maitj to l)tx gTajcstg % CQtucn

1879

PREFACE.

The Memoir of my Aunt, Jane Austen, has
been received with more favour than I had
ventured to expect. The notices taken of it
in the periodical press, as well as letters ad-
dressed to me by many with whom I am not
personally acquainted, show that an unabated
interest is still taken in every particular that
can be told about her. I am thus encouraged
not only to offer a Second Edition of the
Memoir, but also to enlarge it with some addi-
tional matter which I might have scrupled to
intrude on the public if they had not thus seemed
to call for it. In the present Edition, the nar-
rative is somewhat enlarged, and a few more
letters are added ; with a short specimen of her
childish stories. The cancelled chapter of ' Per-
suasion ' is given, in compliance with wishes
both publicly and privately expressed. A frag-
ment of a story entitled ' The Watsons ' is

vi Preface.

printed ; and extracts are given from a novel
which she had begun a few months before her
death ; but the chief addition is a short tale
never before published, called * Lady Susan/
I regret that the little which I have been able
to add could not appear in my First Edition ;
as much of it was either unknown to me, or
not at my command, when I first published ;
and I hope that I may claim some indulgent
allowance for the difficulty of recovering little
facts and feelings which had been merged half
a century deep in oblivion.

November 17, 1870.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

PAGE

Introductory Remarks — Birth of Jane Austen — Her
Family Connections — Their Influence on her Writings , I

CHAPTER II.

Description of Steventon — Life at Steventon — Changes of
Habits and Customs in the last Century . . i S

CHAPTER III.

Early Compositions — Friends at Ashe — A very Old Letter
— Lines on the Death of Mrs. Lefroy — Observations on
fane Austen's Letter-writing — Letters . . . . 4.J

CHAPTER IV.

Removal from Steventon — Residence at Bath and at South-
ampton — Settling at Chawton 66

CHAPTER V.

Description of Jane Austen's person, character, and tastes 82

a

viii Conteiits.

CHAPTER VI.

PAGB

Habits of Composition resztmed after a long interval-
First publication — The interest taken by the Author in
the success of her Works 95

CHAPTER VII.

Seclusion from the literary world- — Notice from the Prince
Regent — Correspondence with Mr. Clarke — Suggestions
to alter her style of writing 108

CHAPTER VIII.

Slow growth of her fa?ne — III success of first atte?npts at
publication — Two Reviews of her works contrasted . 127

CHAPTER IX.

Opinions expressed by eminent persons — Opinions of others
of less eminence — Opinion of American readers . .136

CHAPTER X.
Observations on the Novels 144

CHAPTER XL

Declining health of Jane Austen — Elasticity of her spirits
— Her resignation and humility — Her death . . .150

CHAPTER XII.

The cancelled Chapter of ' Persuasion ' . . . ,167

Contents. ix

CHAPTER XIII.

PAGE

The last work 181

CHAPTER XIV.
Postscript I9S

LADY SUSAN 199

THE WATSONS 297

' He knew of no one but himself who was inclined to the work.
This is no uncommon motive. A man sees something to be
done, knows of no one who will do it but himself, and so is
^driven to the enterprise.'

Helps' Life of Columbtts, ch. i.

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A MEMOIR

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I

CHAPTER I.

Introductory Remarks — Birth of Jane Austen — Her Family
Connections — Their Influence on her Writings.

ORE than half a century has passed away
since I, the youngest of the mourners,*
attended the funeral of my dear aunt
Jane in Winchester Cathedral ; and now,
in my old age, I am asked whether my memory
will serve to rescue from oblivion any events of her
life or any traits of her character to satisfy the en-
quiries of a generation of readers who have been
born since she died. Of events her life was singu-
larly barren: few changes and no great crisis ever
broke the smooth current of its course. Even her
fame may be said to have been posthumous : it did

* I went to represent my father, who was too unwell to attend him-
self, and thus I was the only one of my generation present.

B

A Memoir of

not attain to any vigorous life till she had ceased to
exist. Her talents did not introduce her to the
notice of other writers, or connect her with the lite-
rary world, or in any degree pierce through the
obscurity of her domestic retirement. I have there-
fore scarcely any materials for a detailed life of my
aunt ; but I have a distinct recollection of her person
and character ; and perhaps many may take an in-
terest in a delineation, if any such can be drawn, of
that prolific mind whence sprung the Dashwoods
and Bennets, the Bertrams and Woodhouses, the
Thorpes and Musgroves, who have been admitted
as familiar guests to the firesides of so many families,
and are known there as individually and intimately
as if they were living neighbours. Many may care
to know whether the moral rectitude, the correct
taste, and the warm affections with which she in-
vested her ideal characters, were really existing in
the native source whence those ideas flowed, and
were actually exhibited by her in the various rela-
tions of life. I can indeed bear witness that there
was scarcely a charm in her most delightful charac-
ters that was not a true reflection of her own sweet
temper and loving heart. I was young when we lost
her; but the impressions made on the young are
deep, and though in the course of fifty years I have
forgotten much, I have not forgotten that 'Aunt
Jane' was the delight of all her nephews and nieces.
We did not think of her as being clever, still less as
being famous ; but we valued her as one always kind,
sympathising, and amusing. To all this I am a

Jane Austen.

living witness, but whether I can sketch out such a
faint outline of this excellence as shall be perceptible
to others may be reasonably doubted. Aided, how-
ever, by a few survivors* who knew her, I will not
refuse to make the attempt. I am the more inclined
to undertake the task from a conviction that, however
little I may have to tell, no one else is left who could
tell so much of her.

Jane Austen was born on December 16, 1775, at
the Parsonage House of Steventon in Hampshire.
Her father, the Rev. George Austen, was of a family
long established in the neighbourhood of Tenterden
and Sevenoaks in Kent. I believe that early in the
seventeenth century they were clothiers. Hasted, in
his history of Kent, says : ' The clothing business
was exercised by persons who possessed most of the
landed property in the Weald, insomuch that almost
all the ancient families of these parts, now of large
estates and genteel rank in life, and some of them
ennobled by titles, are sprung from ancestors who
have used this great staple manufacture, now almost
unknown here.' In his list of these families Hasted
places the Austens, and he adds that these clothiers
' were usually called the Gray Coats of Kent ; and

* My chief assistants have been my sisters, Mrs. B. Lefroy and Miss
Austen, whose recollections of our aunt are, on some points, more vivid
than my own. I have not only been indebted to their memory for facts,
but have sometimes used their words. Indeed some passages towards
the end of the work were entirely written by the latter.

I have also to thank some of my cousins, and especially the daughters
of Admiral Charles Austen, for the use of letters and papers which had
passed into their hands, without which this Memoir, scanty as it is,
could not have been written.

A Memoir of

were a body so numerous and united that at county
elections whoever had their vote and interest was
almost certain of being elected.' The family still
retains a badge of this origin ; for their livery is of
that peculiar mixture of light blue and white called
Kentish gray, which forms the facings of the Kentish
militia.

Mr. George Austen had lost both his parents before
he was nine years old. He inherited no property
from them ; but was happy in having a kind uncle,
Mr. Francis Austen, a successful lawyer at Tunbridge,
the ancestor of the Austens of Kippington, who,
though he had children of his own, yet made liberal
provision for his orphan nephew. The boy received
a good education at Tunbridge School, whence he
obtained a scholarship, and subsequently a fellowship,
at St. John's College, Oxford. In 1764 he came into
possession of the two adjoining Rectories of Deane
and Steventon in Hampshire ; the former purchased
for him by his generous uncle Francis, the latter
given by his cousin Mr. Knight. This was no very
gross case of plurality, according to the ideas of that
time, for the two villages were little more than a mile
apart, and their united populations scarcely amounted
to three hundred. In the same year he married Cas-
sandra, youngest daughter of the Rev. Thomas Leigh,
of the family of Leighs of Warwickshire, who, having
been a fellow of All Souls, held the College living of
Harpsden, near Henley-upon-Thames. Mr. Thomas
Leigh was a younger brother of Dr. Theophilus
Leigh, a personage well known at Oxford in his day,

J a?ie Austen. 5

and his day was not a short one, for he lived to be
ninety, and held the Mastership of Balliol College for
above half a century. He was a man more famous
for his sayings than his doings, overflowing with puns
and witticisms and sharp retorts ; but his most
serious joke was his practical one of living much
longer than had been expected or intended. He was
a fellow of Corpus, and the story is that the Balliol
men, unable to agree in electing one of their own
number to the Mastership, chose him, partly under
the idea that he was in weak health and likely soon
to cause another vacancy. It was afterwards said
that his long incumbency had been a judgment on
the Society for having elected an Out-College Man.*
I imagine that the front of Balliol towards Broad Street
which has recently been pulled down must have been
built, or at least restored, while he was Master, for
the Leigh arms were placed under the cornice at the
■corner nearest to Trinity gates. The beautiful build-
ing lately erected has destroyed this record, and thus
4 monuments themselves memorials need.'

His fame for witty and agreeable conversation ex-
tended beyond the bounds of the University. Mrs.
Thrale, in a letter to Dr. Johnson, writes thus : ' Are
you acquainted with Dr. Leigh,*f- the Master of Balliol
College, and are you not delighted with his gaiety of

* There seems to have been some doubt as to the validity of this
election; for Hearne says that it was referred to the Visitor, who
confirmed it. (Hearne's Diaries, v. 2. )

+ Mrs. Thrale writes Dr. Le% but there can be no doubt of the
identity of person.

A Memoir of

manners and youthful vivacity, now that he is eighty-
six years of age ? I never heard a more perfect or
excellent pun than his, when some one told him how,
in a late dispute among the Privy Councillors, the
Lord Chancellor struck the table with such violence
that he split it. "No, no, no/' replied the Master;
<e I can hardly persuade myself that he split tlie table r
though I believe he divided the Board" '

Some of his sayings of course survive in family
tradition. He was once calling on a gentleman
notorious for never opening a book, who took him
into a room overlooking the Bath Road, which was
then a great thoroughfare for travellers of every class,
saying rather pompously, ' This, Doctor, I call my
study.' The Doctor, glancing his eye round the
room, in which no books were to be seen, replied,
' And very well named too, sir, for you know Pope
tells us, " The proper study of mankind is Man'' '
When my father went to Oxford he was honoured
with an invitation to dine with this dignified cousin.
Being a raw undergraduate, unaccustomed to the
habits of the University, he was about to take off his
gown, as if it were a great coat, when the old man,,
then considerably turned eighty, said, with a grim
smile, ' Young man, you need not strip : we are not
going to fight.' This humour remained in him so
strongly to the last that he might almost have sup-
plied Pope with another instance of the ruling passion
strong in death,' for only three days before he expired,
being told that an old acquaintance was lately married,
having recovered from a long illness by eating eggs.

Jane A us ten.

and that the wits said that he had been egged on to
matrimony, he immediately trumped the joke, saying,
' Then may the yoke sit easy on him/ I do not
know from what common ancestor the Master of
Balliol and his great-niece Jane Austen, with some
others of the family, may have derived the keen
sense of humour which they certainly possessed.

Mr. and Mrs. George Austen resided first at Deane,
but removed in 1771 to Steventon, which was their
residence for about thirty years. They commenced
their married life with the charge of a little child, a
son of the celebrated Warren Hastings, who had
been committed to the care of Mr. Austen before his
marriage, probably through the influence of his sister,
Mrs. Hancock, whose husband at that time held
some office under Hastings in India. Mr. Gleig, in
his 'Life of Hastings,' says that his son George, the
offspring of his first marriage, was sent to England
in 1 761 for his education, but that he had never been
able to ascertain to whom this precious charge was
entrusted, nor what became of him. I am able to
state, from family tradition, that he died young, of
what was then called putrid sore throat ; and that
Mrs. Austen had become so much attached to him
that she always declared that his death had been as
great a grief to her as if he had been a child of her own.

About this time, the grandfather of Mary Russell
Mitford, Dr. Russell, was Rector of the adjoining
parish of Ashe ; so that the parents of two popular
female writers must have been intimately acquainted
with each other.

8 A Memoir of

As my subject carries me back about a hundred
years, it will afford occasions for observing many
changes gradually effected in the manners and habits
of society, which I may think it worth while to men-
tion. They may be little things, but time gives a
certain importance even to trifles, as it imparts a
peculiar flavour to wine. The most ordinary articles
of domestic life are looked on with some interest, if
they are brought to light alter being long buried ;
and we feel a natural curiosity to know what was
done and said by our forefathers, even though it may
be nothing wiser or better than what we are daily
doing or saying ourselves. Some of this generation
may be little aware how many conveniences, now
considered to be necessaries and matters of course,
were unknown to their grandfathers and grand-
mothers. The lane between Deane and Steventon
has long been as smooth as the best turnpike road ;
but when the family removed from the one residence
to the other in 1 771, it was a mere cart track, so cut
up by deep ruts as to be impassable for a light
carriage. Mrs. Austen, who was not then in strong
health, performed the short journey on a feather-bed,
placed upon some soft articles of furniture in the
waggon which held their household goods. In those
days it was not unusual to set men to work with
shovel and pickaxe to fill up ruts and holes in roads
seldom used by carriages, on such special occasions
as a funeral or a wedding. Ignorance and coarseness
of language also were still lingering even upon higher
levels of society than might have been expected to

Jane Austen,

retain such mists. About this time, a neighbouring
squire, a man of many acres, referred the following
difficulty to Mr. Austen's decision : ' You know all
about these sort of things. Do tell us. Is Paris in
France, or France in Paris ? for my wife has been
disputing with me about it' The same gentleman,
narrating some conversation which he had heard
between the rector and his wife, represented the
latter as beginning her reply to her husband with a
round oath ; and when his daughter called him to
task, reminding him that Mrs. Austen never swore,
he replied, ' Now, Betty, why do you pull me up for
nothing? that's neither here nor there; you know
very well that's only my way of telling the story!
Attention has lately been called by a celebrated writer
to the inferiority of the clergy to the laity of England
two centuries ago. The charge no doubt is true, if
the rural clergy are to be compared with that higher
section of country gentlemen who went into parlia-
ment, and mixed in London society, and took the
lead in their several counties ; but it might be found
less true if they were to be compared, as in all fair-
ness they ought to be, with that lower section with
whom they usually associated. The smaller landed
proprietors, who seldom went farther from home than
their county town, from the squire with his thousand
acres to the yeoman who cultivated his hereditary
property of one or two hundred, then formed a
numerous class — each the aristocrat of his own parish;
and there was probably a greater difference in man-
ners and refinement between this class and that im-

IO A Memoir of

mediately above them than could now be found
between any two persons who rank as gentlemen.
For in the progress of civilisation, though all orders
may make some progress, yet it is most perceptible
in the lower. It is a process of ' levelling up ; ' the
rear rank ' dressing up/ as it were, close to the front
rank. When Hamlet mentions, as something which
he had 'for three years taken note of,' that ' the toe of
the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier,' it
was probably intended by Shakspeare as a satire on
his own times ; but it expressed a principle which is
working at all times in which society makes any
progress. I believe that a century ago the improve-
ment in most country parishes began with the clergy ;.
and that in those days a rector who chanced to be a
gentleman and a scholar found himself superior to his
chief parishioners in information and manners, and
became a sort of centre of refinement and politeness.

Mr. Austen was a remarkably good-looking man,
both in his youth and his old age. During his year
of office at Oxford he had been called ' the handsome
Proctor ;' and at Bath, when more than seventy years
old, lie attracted observation by his fine features and
abundance of snow-white hair. Being a good scholar
he was able to prepare two of his sons for the Univer-
sity, and to direct the studies of his other children,
whether sons or daughters, as well as to increase his
income by taking pupils.

In Mrs. Austen also was to be found the germ of
much of the ability which was concentrated in Jane,,
but' of which others of her children had a share. She

Jane Austen. ir

united strong common sense with a lively imagina-
tion, and often expressed herself, both in writing and
in conversation, with epigrammatic force and point.
She lived, like many of her family, to an advanced
age. During the last years of her life she endured
continual pain, not only patiently but with character-
istic cheerfulness. She once said to me, ' Ah, my
dear, you find me just where you left me — on the sofa.
I sometimes think that God Almighty must have
forgotten me ; but I dare say He will come for me in
His own good time.' She died and was buried at
Chawton, January 1827, aged eighty-eight.

Her own family were so much, and the rest of the
world so little, to Jane Austen, that some brief men-
tion of her brothers and sister is necessary in order to
give any idea of the objects which principally occu-
pied her thoughts and filled her heart, especially as
some of them, from their characters or professions in
life, may be supposed to have had more or less influ-
ence on her writings : though I feel some reluctance
in bringing before public notice persons and circum-
stances essentially private.

Her eldest brother James, my own father, had, when-
a very young man, at St. John's College, Oxford, been
the originator and chief supporter of a periodical
paper called ' The Loiterer/ written somewhat on
the plan of the ' Spectator' and its successors, but
nearly confined to subjects connected with the Uni-
versity. In after life he used to speak very slight-
ingly of this early work, which he had the better right

12 A Memoir of

to do, as, whatever may have been the degree of their
merits, the best papers had certainly been written by
himself. He was well read in English literature, had
a correct taste, and wrote readily and happily, both
in prose and verse. He was more than ten years
older than Jane, and had, I believe, a large share in
directing her reading and forming her taste.

Her second brother, Edward, had been a good deal
separated from the rest of the family, as he was early
adopted by his cousin, Mr. Knight, of Godmersham
Park in Kent and Chawton House in Hampshire ;
.and finally came into possession both of the property
and the name. But though a good deal separated in
childhood, they were much together in after life, and
Jane gave a large share of her affections to him and
his children. Mr. Knight was not only a very amiable
man, kind and indulgent to all connected with him,
but possessed also a spirit of fun and liveliness, which
made him especially delightful to all young people.

Her third brother, Henry, had great conversational
powers, and inherited from his father an eager and
sanguine disposition. He was a very entertaining
companion, but had perhaps less steadiness of pur-
pose, certainly less success in life, than his brothers.
He became a clergyman when middle-aged ; and an
allusion to his sermons will be found in one of Jane's
letters. At one time he resided in London, and was
useful in transacting his sister's business with her
publishers.

Her two youngest brothers, Francis and Charles,
were sailors during that glorious period of the British

Jane Austen. 13,

navy which comprises the close of the last and the
beginning of the present century, when it was impos-
sible for an officer to be almost always afloat, as these
brothers were, without seeing service which, in these
days, would be considered distinguished. Accord-
ingly, they were continually engaged in actions of
more or less importance, and sometimes gained pro-
motion by their success. Both rose to the rank
of Admiral, and carried out their flags to distant
stations.

Francis lived to attain the very summit of his pro-
fession, having died, in his ninety-third year, G.C.B.
and Senior Admiral of the Fleet, in 1865. He pos-
sessed great firmness of character, with a strong sense
of duty, whether due from himself to others, or from
others to himself. He was consequently a strict dis-
ciplinarian ; but, as he was a very religious man, it
was remarked of him (for in those days, at least, it
was remarkable) that he maintained this discipline
without ever uttering an oath or permitting one in
his presence. On one occasion, when ashore in a sea-
side town, he was spoken of as 'the officer who
kneeled at church ;' a custom which now happily
would not be thought peculiar.

Charles was generally serving in frigates or sloops ;.
blockading harbours, driving the ships of the enemy
ashore, boarding gun-boats, and frequently making
small prizes. At one time he was absent from Eng-
land on such services for seven years together. In
later life he commanded the Bellerophon, at the bom-
bardment of St. Jean d'Acre in 1840. In 1850 he

14 A Memoir of

went out in the Hastings, in command of the East
India and China station, but on the breaking out of
the Burmese war he transferred his flag to a steam
sloop, for the purpose of getting up the shallow
waters of the Irrawaddy, on board of which he died
of cholera in 1852, in the seventy-fourth year of his
age. His sweet temper and affectionate disposition,
in which he resembled his sister Jane, had secured to
him an unusual portion of attachment, not only from
his own family, but from all the officers and common
sailors who served under him. One who was with
him at his death has left this record of him : ' Our
good Admiral won the hearts of all by his gentleness
and kindness while he was struggling with disease,
and endeavouring to do his duty as Commander-in-
chief of the British naval forces in these waters. His
death was a great grief to the whole fleet. I know
that I cried bitterly when I found he was dead/ The
Order in Council of the Governor- General of India,
Lord Dalhousie, expresses ' admiration of the staunch
high spirit which, notwithstanding his age and pre-
vious sufferings, had led the Admiral to take his part
in the trying service which has closed his career/

These two brothers have been dwelt on longer than
the others because their honourable career accounts
for Jane Austen's partiality for the Navy, as well as
for the readiness and accuracy with which she wrote
about it. She was always very careful not to meddle
with matters which she did not thoroughly understand.
She never touched upon politics, law, or medicine,
subjects which some novel writers have ventured on

Jane Austen. m

rather too boldly, and have treated, perhaps, with
more brilliancy than accuracy. But with ships and
sailors she felt herself at home, or at least could
always trust to a brotherly critic to keep her right.
I believe that no flaw has ever been found in her
seamanship either in ' Mansfield Park ' or in ' Per-
suasion.'

But dearest of all to the heart of Jane was her
sister Cassandra, about three years her senior. Their
sisterly affection for each other could scarcely be ex-
ceeded. Perhaps it began on Jane's side with the
feeling of deference natural to a loving child towards
a kind elder sister. Something of this feeling always
remained; and even in the maturity of her powers,
and in the enjoyment of increasing success, she would
still speak of Cassandra as of one wiser and better
than herself. In childhood, when the elder was sent
to the school of a Mrs. Latournelle, in the Forbury
at Reading, the younger went with her, not because
she was thought old enough to profit much by the
instruction there imparted, but because she would
have been miserable without her sister ; her mother
observing that ' if Cassandra were going to have her
head cut off, Jane would insist on sharing her fate.'
This attachment was never interrupted or weakened.
They lived in the same home, and shared the same
bed-room, till separated by death. They were not
exactly alike. Cassandra's was the colder and calmer
disposition ; she was always prudent and well judging,
but with less outward demonstration of feeling and
less sunniness of temper than Jane possessed. It was

1 6 A Memoir of

remarked in her family that ' Cassandra had the merit
of having her temper always under command, but
that Jane had the happiness of a temper that never
required to be commanded/ When ' Sense and
Sensibility' came out, some persons, who knew the
family slightly, surmised that the two elder Miss
Dashwoods were intended by the author for her sister
and herself; but this could not be the case. Cas-
sandra's character might indeed represent the i sense '
of Elinor, but Jane's had little in common with the
'sensibility' of Marianne. The young woman who,
before the age of twenty, could so clearly discern the
failings of Marianne Dashwood, could hardly have
been subject to them herself.

This was the small circle, continually enlarged,
however, by the increasing families of four of her
brothers, within which Jane Austen found her whole-
some pleasures, duties, and interests, and beyond which
she went very little into society during the last ten
years of her life. There was so much that was agree-
able and attractive in this family party that its
members may be excused if they were inclined to-
live somewhat too exclusively within it. They might
see in each other much to love and esteem, and
something to admire. The family talk had abun-
dance of spirit and vivacity, and was never troubled
by disagreements even in little matters, for it was not
their habit to dispute or argue with each other : above
all, there was strong family affection and firm union,
never to be broken but by death. It cannot be
doubted that all this had its influence on the author

Jane A listen. 1 7

in the construction of her stories, in which a family
party usually supplies the narrow stage, while the
interest is made to revolve round a few actors.

It will be seen also that though her circle of society
was small, yet she found in her neighbourhood persons
of good taste and cultivated minds. Her acquaint-
ance, in fact, constituted the very class from which
she took her imaginary characters, ranging from the
member of parliament, or large landed proprietor, to
the young curate or younger midshipman of equally
good family ; and I think that the influence of these
early associations may be traced in her writings,
especially in two particulars. First, that she is
entirely free from the vulgarity, which is so offensive
in some novels, of dwelling on the outward ap-
pendages of wealth or rank, as if they were things to
which the writer was unaccustomed ; and, secondly,
that she deals as little with very low as with, very
high stations in life. She does not go lower than the
Miss Steeles, Mrs. Elton, and John Thorpe, people of
bad taste and underbred manners, such as are actually
found sometimes mingling with better society. She
has nothing resembling the Brangtons, or Mr. Dubster
and his friend Tom Hicks, with whom Madame
D'Arblay loved to season her stories, and to produce
striking contrasts to her well bred characters.

1 8 A Memoir of

CHAPTER II.

Description of Steventon — Life at Steventon— Changes of Habits and
Customs i?i the last Century.

As the first twenty-five years, more than half of the
brief life of Jane Austen, were spent in the parsonage
of Steventon, some description of that place ought to
be given. Steventon is a small rural village upon the
chalk hills of north Hants, situated in a winding
valley about seven miles from Basingstoke. The
South- Western railway crosses it by a short embank-
ment, and, as it curves round, presents a good view of
it on the left hand to those who are travelling down
the line, about three miles before entering the tunnel
under Popham Beacon. It may be known to some
sportsmen, as lying in one of the best portions of the
Vine Hunt. It is certainly not a picturesque country ;
it presents no grand or extensive views ; but the
features are small rather than plain. The surface
continually swells and sinks, but the hills are not
bold, nor the valleys deep ; and though it is sufficiently
well clothed with woods and hedgerows, yet the
poverty of the soil in most places prevents the timber
from attaining a large size. Still it has its beauties.
The lanes wind along in a natural curve, continually

Jane Austen. 19

fringed with irregular borders of native turf, and lead
to pleasant nooks and corners. One who knew and
loved it well very happily expressed its quiet charms,
when he wrote

True taste is not fastidious, nor rejects,
Because they may not come within the rule
Of composition pure and picturesque,
Unnumbered simple scenes which fill the leaves
Of Nature's sketch book.

Of this somewhat tame country, Steventon, from
the fall of the ground, and the abundance of its timber,
is certainly one of the prettiest spots ; yet one cannot
be surprised that, when Jane's mother, a little before
her marriage, was shown the scenery of her future
home, she should have thought it unattractive, com-
pared with the broad river, the rich valley, and the
noble hills which she had been accustomed to behold
at her native home near Henley-upon-Thames.

The house itself stood in a shallow valley, sur-
rounded by sloping meadows, well sprinkled with elm
trees, at the end of a small village of cottages, each
well provided with a garden, scattered about prettily
on either side of the road. It was sufficiently com-
modious to hold pupils in addition to a growing
family, and was in those times considered to be above
the average of parsonages; but the rooms were
finished with less elegance than would now be found
in the most ordinary dwellings. No cornice marked
the junction of wall and ceiling ; while the beams
which supported the upper floors projected into the
rooms below in all their naked simplicity, covered

20 A Memoir of

only by. a coat of paint or whitewash: accordingly
it has since been considered unworthy of being the
Rectory house of a family living, and about forty-
five years ago it was pulled down for the purpose of
erecting a new house in a far better situation on the
opposite side of the valley.

North of the house, the road from Deane to Pop-
ham Lane ran at a sufficient distance from the front
to allow a carriage drive, through turf and trees. On
the south side the ground rose gently, and was occu-
pied by one of those old-fashioned gardens in which
vegetables and flowers are combined, flanked and
protected on the east by one of the thatched mud
walls common in that country, and overshadowed by
fine elms. Along the upper or southern side of this
garden, ran a terrace of the finest turf, which must
have been in the writer's thoughts when she described
Catharine Morland's childish delight in ' rolling down
the green slope at the back of the house/

But the chief beauty of Steventon consisted in its
hedgerows. A hedgerow, in that country, does not
mean a thin formal line of quickset, but an irregular
border of copse-wood and timber, often wide enough
to contain within it a winding footpath, or a rough
cart track. Under its shelter the earliest primroses,
anemones, and wild hyacinths were to be found ;
sometimes, the first bird's-nest; and, now and then,
the unwelcome adder. Two such hedgerows radiated,
as it were, from the parsonage garden. One, a con-
tinuation of the turf terrace, proceeded westward,
forming the southern boundary of the home meadows ;

Jane Austen. 21

and was formed into a rustic shrubbery, with occa-
sional seats, entitled ' The Wood Walk/ The other
ran straight up the hill, under the name of ' The
Church Walk/ because it led to the parish church, as
well as to a fine old manor-house, of Henry VIII/s
time, occupied by a family named Digweed, who have
for more than a century rented it, together with the
chief farm in the parish. The church itself — I speak
of it as it then was, before the improvements made
by the present rector —

A little spireless fane,
Just seen above the woody lane,

might have appeared mean and uninteresting to an
ordinary observer ; but the adept in church architec-
ture would have known that it must have stood there
some seven centuries, and would have found beauty
in the very narrow early English windows, as well as
in the general proportions of its little chancel ; while
its solitary position, far from the hum of the village,
and within sight of no habitation, except a glimpse of
the gray manor-house through its circling screen of
sycamores, has in it something solemn and appro-
priate to the last resting-place of the silent dead,
Sweet violets, both purple and white, grow in abun-
dance beneath its south wall. One may imagine for
how many centuries the ancestors of those little
flowers have occupied that undisturbed, sunny nook,
•and may think how few living families can boast of
as ancient a tenure of their land. Large elms pro-
trude their rough branches ; old hawthorns shed their

A Memoir of

annual blossoms over the graves; and the hollow
yew-tree must be at least coeval with the church.

But whatever may be the beauties or defects of the
surrounding scenery, this was the residence of Jane
Austen for twenty-five years. This was the cradle of
her genius. These were the first objects which in-
spired her young heart with a sense of the beauties
of nature. In strolls along those wood-walks, thick-
coming fancies rose in her mind, and gradually as-
sumed the forms in which they came forth to the
world. In that simple church she brought them all
into subjection to the piety which ruled her in life,
[^ and supported her in death.

The home at Steventon must have been, for many
years, a pleasant and prosperous one. The family
was unbroken by death, and seldom visited by sorrow.
Their situation had some peculiar advantages beyond
those of ordinary rectories. Steventon was a family
living. Mr. Knight, the patron, was also proprietor
of nearly the whole parish. He never resided there,
and consequently the rector and his children came to
be regarded in the neighbourhood as a kind of re-
presentatives of the family. They shared with the
principal tenant the command of an excellent manor,
and enjoyed, in this reflected way, some of the con-
sideration usually awarded to landed proprietors.
They were not rich, but, aided by Mr. Austen's powers
of teaching, they had enough to afford a good educa-
tion to their sons and daughters, to mix in the best
society of the neighbourhood, and to exercise a liberal
hospitality to their own relations and friends. A

( Jane Austen. 23

carriage and a pair of horses were kept. This might
imply a higher style of living in our days than it did
in theirs. There were then no assessed taxes. The
carriage, once bought, entailed little further expense ;
and the horses probably, like Mr. Bennet's, were often
employed on farm work. Moreover, it should be re-
membered that a pair of horses in those days were
almost necessary, if ladies were to move about at all ;
for neither the condition of the roads nor the style of
carriage-building admitted of any comfortable vehicle
being drawn by a single horse. When one looks at
the few specimens still remaining of coach-building in
the last century, it strikes one that the chief object of
the builders must have been to combine the greatest
possible weight with the least possible amount of
accommodation.

The family lived in close intimacy with two cousins,
Edward and Jane Cooper, the children of Mrs.
Austen's eldest sister, and Dr. Cooper, the vicar of
Sonning, near Reading. The Coopers lived for some
years at Bath, which seems to have been much fre-
quented in those days by clergymen retiring from
work. I believe that Cassandra and Jane sometimes
visited them there, and that Jane thus acquired the
intimate knowledge of the topography and customs
of Bath, which enabled her to write ' Northanger
Abbey ' long before she resided there herself. After
the death of their own parents, the two young Coopers
paid long visits at Steventon. Edward Cooper did
not live undistinguished. When an undergraduate at
Oxford, he gained the prize for Latin hexameters on

24 A Memoir of

c Hortus Anglicus ' in 1791 ; and in later life he was
known by a work on prophecy, called * The Crisis/
and other religious publications, especially for several
volumes of Sermons, much preached in many pulpits
in my youth. Jane Cooper was married from her
uncle's house at Steventon, to Captain, afterwards Sir
Thomas Williams, under whom Charles Austen served
in several ships. She was a dear friend of her name-
sake, but was fated to become a cause of great sorrow
to her, for a few years after the marriage she was
suddenly killed by an accident to her carriage.

There was another cousin closely associated with
them at Steventon, who must have introduced greater
variety into the family circle. This was the daughter
of Mr. Austen's only sister, Mrs. Hancock. This
cousin had been educated in Paris, and married to a
Count de Feuillade, of whom I know little more than
that he perished by the guillotine during the French
Revolution. Perhaps his chief offence was his rank ;
but it was said that the charge of ' incivism/ under
which he suffered, rested on the fact of his having
laid down some arable land into pasture — a sure sign
of his intention to embarrass the Republican Govern-
ment by producing a famine ! His wife escaped
through dangers and difficulties to England, was re-
ceived for some time into her uncle's family, and
finally married her cousin Henry Austen. During
the short peace of Amiens, she and her second hus-
band went to France, in the hope of recovering some
of the Count's property, and there narrowly escaped
being included amongst the detenus. Orders had

JciJie Austen. 25

been given by Buonaparte's government to detain all
English travellers, but at the post-houses Mrs. Henry
Austen gave the necessary orders herself, and her
French was so perfect that she passed everywhere for
a native, and her husband escaped under this pro-
tection.

She was a clever woman, and highly accomplished,
after the French rather than the English mode ; and
in those days, when intercourse with the Continent
was long interrupted by war, such an element in the
society of a country parsonage must have been a
rare acquisition. The sisters may have been more
indebted to this cousin than to Mrs. La Tournelle's
teaching for the considerable knowledge of French
which they possessed. She also took the principal
parts in the private theatricals in which the family
several times indulged, having their summer theatre
in the barn, and their winter one within the narrow
limits of the dining-room, where the number of the
audience must have been very limited. On these
occasions, the prologues and epilogues were written
by Jane's eldest brother, and some of them are very
vigorous and amusing. Jane was only twelve years
old at the time of the earliest of these representa-
tions, and not more than fifteen when the last took
place. She was, however, an early observer, and it
may be reasonably supposed that some of the in-
cidents and feelings which are so vividly painted in
the Mansfield Park theatricals are due to her recol-
lections of these entertainments.

Some time before they left Steventon, one great

26 A Memoir of

affliction came upon the family. Cassandra was en-
gaged to be married to a young clergyman. He had
not sufficient private fortune to permit an immediate
union ; but the engagement was not likely to be a
hopeless or a protracted one, for he had a prospect
of early preferment from a nobleman with whom he
was connected both by birth and by personal friend-
ship. He accompanied this friend to the West Indies,
as chaplain to his regiment, and there died of yellow
fever, to the great concern of his friend and patron,
who afterwards declared that, if he had known of
the engagement, he would not have permitted him
to go out to such a climate. This little domestic
tragedy caused great and lasting grief to the prin-
cipal sufferer, and could not but cast a gloom over
the whole party. The sympathy of Jane was pro-
bably, from her age, and her peculiar attachment to
her sister, the deepest of all.

Of Jane herself I know of no such definite tale of
love to relate. Her reviewer in the 'Quarterly* of
January 182 1 observes, concerning the attachment
of Fanny Price to Edmund Bertram : ' The silence in
which this passion is cherished, the slender hopes and
enjoyments by which it is fed, the restlessness and
jealousy with which it fills a mind naturally active,
contented, and unsuspicious, the manner in which
it tinges every event, and every reflection, are painted
with a vividness and a detail of which we can scarcely
conceive any one but a female, and we should almost
add, a female writing from recollection, capable.'
This conjecture, however probable, was wide of the

Jane Austen. 27

mark. The picture was drawn from the intuitive
perceptions of genius, not from personal experience.
In no circumstance of her life was there any simi-
larity between herself and her heroine in ' Mansfield
Park.' She did not indeed pass through life without
being the object of warm affection. In her youth
she had declined the addresses of a gentleman who
had the recommendations of good character, and con-
nections, and position in life, of everything, in fact,
except the subtle power of touching her heart. There
is, however, one passage of romance in her history
with which I am imperfectly acquainted, and to
which I am unable to assign name, or date, or place,
though I have it on sufficient authority. Many years
after her death, some circumstances induced her sister
Cassandra to break through her habitual reticence,
and to speak of it. She said that, while staying at
some seaside place, they became acquainted with a
gentleman, whose charm of person, mind, and man-
ners was such that Cassandra thought him worthy
to possess and likely to win her sister's love. When
they parted, he expressed his intention of soon seeing
them again ; and Cassandra felt no doubt as to his
motives. But they never again met. Within a short
time they heard of his sudden death. I believe that,
if Jane ever loved, it was this unnamed gentleman ;
but the acquaintance had been short, and I am
unable to say whether her feelings were of such a
nature as to affect her happiness.

Any description that I might attempt of the family
life at Steventon, which closed soon after I was born,

28 A Memoir of

could be little better than a fancy-piece. There is
no doubt that if we look into the households of the
clergy and the small gentry of that period, we should
see some things which would seem strange to us, and
should miss many more to which we are accustomed.
Every hundred years, and especially a century like
the last, marked by an extraordinary advance in
wealth, luxury, and refinement of taste, as well as in
the mechanical arts which embellish our houses, must
produce a great change in their aspect. These
changes are always at work ; they are going on now,
but so silently that we take no note of them. Men
soon forget the small objects which they leave behind
them as they drift down the stream of life. As Pope
says —

Nor does life's stream for observation stay ;
It hurries all too fast to mark their way.

Important inventions, such as the applications of
steam, gas, and electricity, may find their places in
history ; but not so the alterations, great as they may
be, which have taken place in the appearance of our
dining and drawing-rooms. Who can now record the
degrees by which the custom prevalent in my youth
of asking each other to take wine together at dinner
became obsolete ? Who will be able to fix, twenty
years hence, the date when our dinners began to be
carved and handed round by servants, instead of
smoking before our eyes and noses on the table ? To
record such little matters would indeed be ' to chro-
nicle small beer/ But, in a slight memoir like this,

Jane A listen. 29

I may be allowed to note some of those changes in
social habits which give a colour to history, but
which the historian has the greatest difficulty in re-
covering.

At that time the dinner-table presented a far less
splendid appearance than it does now. It was ap-
propriated to solid food, rather than to flowers, fruits,
and decorations. Nor was there much glitter of plate
upon it ; for the early dinner hour rendered candle-
sticks unnecessary, and silver forks had not come
into general use : while the broad rounded end of the
knives indicated the substitute generally used instead
of them.*

The dinners too were more homely, though not
less plentiful and savoury ; and the bill of fare in one
house would not be so like that in another as it is
now, for family receipts were held in high estimation.
A grandmother of culinary talent could bequeath to
her descendant fame for some particular dish, and

* The celebrated Beau Brummel, who was so intimate with George IV.
as to be able to quarrel with him, was born in 1771. It is reported
that when he was questioned about his parents, he replied that it was
long since he had heard of them, but that he imagined the worthy
couple must have cut their own throats by that time, because when he
last saw them they were eating peas with their knives. Yet Brummel's
father had probably lived in good society ; and was certainly able to
put his son into a fashionable regiment, and to leave him 30,000/.'
Raikes believes that he had been Secretary to Lord North, Thackeray's
idea that he had been a footman cannot stand against the authority of
Raikes, who was intimate with the son.

1 Raikes's Memoirs, vol. iL p. 207.

30 A Memoir of

might influence the family dinner for many gene-
rations.

Dos est magna parentium
Virtus.

One house would pride itself on its ham, another on
its game-pie, and a third on its superior furmity, or
tansey-pudding. Beer and home-made wines, espe-
cially mead, were more largely consumed. Veget-
ables were less plentiful and less various. Potatoes
were used, but not so abundantly as now ; and there
was an idea that they were to be eaten only with
roast meat They were novelties to a tenant's wife
who was entertained at Steventon Parsonage, cer-
tainly less than a hundred years ago ; and when Mrs.
Austen advised her to plant them in her own garden,
she replied, 'No, no; they are very well for you
gentry, but they must be terribly costly to rear'

But a still greater difference would be found in the
furniture of the rooms, which would appear to us
lamentably scanty. There was a general deficiency
of carpeting in sitting-rooms, bed-rooms ? and passages.
A pianoforte, or rather a spinnet or harpsichord, was
by no means a necessary appendage. It was to be
found only where there was a decided taste for music,
not so common then as now, or in such great houses
as would probably contain a billiard-table. There
would often be but one sofa in the house, and that a
stiff, angular, uncomfortable article. There were no
deep easy-chairs, nor other appliances for lounging ;
for to lie down, or even to lean back, was a luxury

Jane A listen. 3 1

permitted only to old persons or invalids. It was
said of a nobleman, a personal friend of George III.
and a model gentleman of his day, that he would
have made the tour of Europe without ever touching
the back of his travelling carriage. But perhaps we
should be most struck with the total absence of those
elegant little articles which now embellish and en-
cumber our drawing-room tables. We should miss
the sliding bookcases and picture-stands, the letter-
weighing machines and envelope cases, the periodicals
and illustrated newspapers — above all, the countless
swarm of photograph books which now threaten to
swallow up all space. A small writing-desk, with a
smaller work-box, or netting-case, was all that each
young lady contributed to occupy the table ; for the
large family work-basket, though often produced in
the parlour, lived in the closet.

There must have been more dancing throughout
the country in those days than there is now : and it
seems to have sprung up more spontaneously, as if it
were a natural production, with less fastidiousness as
to the quality of music, lights, and floor. Many
country towns had a monthly ball throughout the
winter, in some of which the same apartment served
for dancing and tea-room. Dinner parties more fre-
quently ended with an extempore dance on the
c.arpet, to the music of a harpsichord in the house, or
a fiddle from the village. This was always supposed
to be for the entertainment of the young people, but
many, who had little pretension to youth, were very
ready to join in it. There can be no doubt that

33 A Memoir of

Jane herself enjoyed dancing, for she attributes this
taste to her favourite heroines ; in most of her works,
a ball or a private dance is mentioned, and made of
importance.

Many things connected with the ball-rooms of
those days have now passed into oblivion. The
barbarous law which confined the lady to one partner
throughout the evening must indeed have been abo-
lished before Jane went to balls. It must be ob-
served, however, that this custom was in one respect
advantageous to the gentleman, inasmuch as it ren-
dered his duties more practicable. He was bound to
call upon his partner the next morning, and it must
have been convenient to have only one lady for
whom he was obliged

To gallop all the country over,
The last night's partner to behold,
And humbly hope she caught no cold.

But the stately minuet still reigned supreme; and
every regular ball commenced with it It was a
slow and solemn movement, expressive of grace and
dignity, rather than of merriment It abounded in
formal bows and courtesies, with measured paces,
forwards, backwards and sideways, and many com-
plicated gyrations. It was executed by one lady
and gentleman, amidst the admiration, or the criti-
cism, of surrounding spectators. In its earlier and
most palmy days, as when Sir Charles and Lady
Grandison delighted the company by dancing it at
their own wedding, the gentleman wore a dress

Jane A listen. 33

sword, and the lady was armed with a fan of nearly
equal dimensions. Addison observes that 'women
are armed with fans, as men with swords, and some-
times do more execution with them/ The graceful
carriage of each weapon was considered a test of
high breeding. The clownish man was in danger of
being tripped up by his sword getting between his
legs : the fan held clumsily looked more of a burden
than an ornament ; while in the hands of an adept
it could be made to speak a language of its own *
It was not everyone who felt qualified to make this
public exhibition, and I have been told that those
ladies who intended to dance minuets, used to distin-
guish themselves from others by wearing a particular
kind of lappet on their head-dress. I have heard
also of another curious proof of the respect in which
this dance was held. Gloves immaculately clean
were considered requisite for its due performance,
while gloves a little soiled were thought good enough
for a country dance ; and accordingly some prudent
ladies provided themselves with two pairs for their
several purposes. The minuet expired with the last
century : but long after it had ceased to be danced
publicly it was taught to boys and girls, in order to
give them a graceful carriage.

* See * Spectator,' No. 102, on the Fan Exercise. Old gentlemen
who had survived the fashion of wearing swords were known to regret
the disuse of that custom, because it put an end to one way of dis-
tinguishing those who had, from those who had not, been used to good
society. To wear the sword easily was an art which, like swimming
and skating, required to be learned in youth. Children could practise
it early with their toy swords adapted to their size.

D

34 A Memoir of

Hornpipes, cotillons, and reels, were occasionally-
danced ; but the chief occupation of the evening was
the interminable country dance, in which all could
join. This dance presented a great show of enjoy-
ment, but it was not without its peculiar troubles.
The ladies and gentlemen were ranged apart from each
other in opposite rows, so that the facilities for flirta-
tion, or interesting intercourse, were not so great as
might have been desired by both parties. Much
heart-burning and discontent sometimes arose as to
who should stand above whom, and especially as to
who was entitled to the high privilege of calling and
leading off the first dance : and no little indignation
was felt at the lower end of the room when any of
the leading couples retired prematurely from their
duties, and did not condescend to dance up and
down the whole set. We may rejoice that these
causes of irritation no longer exist ; and that if such
feelings as jealousy, rivalry, and discontent ever touch
celestial bosoms in the modern ball-room they must
arise from different and more recondite sources.

I am tempted to add a little about the difference
of personal habits. It may be asserted as a general
truth, that less was left to the charge and discretion
of servants, and more was done, or superintended, by
the masters and mistresses. With regard to the mis-
tresses, it is, I believe, generally understood, that at
the time to which I refer, a hundred years ago, they
took a personal part in the higher branches of cook-
ery, as well as in the concoction of home-made wines,
and distilling of herbs for domestic medicines, which
are nearly allied to the same art. Ladies did not dis-

Jane Austen. 35

dain to spin the thread of which the household linen
was woven. Some ladies liked to wash with their
own hands their choice china after breakfast or tea.
In one of my earliest child's books, a little girl, the
daughter of a gentleman, is taught by her mother to
make her own bed before leaving her chamber. It
was not so much that they had not servants to do all
these things for them, as that they took an interest in
such occupations. And it must be borne in mind
how many sources of interest enjoyed by this genera-
tion were then closed, or very scantily opened to
ladies. A very small minority of them cared much
for literature or science. Music was not a very com-
mon, and drawing was a still rarer, accomplishment ;
needlework, in some form or other, was their chief
sedentary employment.

But I doubt whether the rising generation are
equally aware how much gentlemen also did for
themselves in those times, and whether some things
that I can mention will not be a surprise to them.
Two homely proverbs were held in higher estimation
in my early days than they are now — 'The master's
eye makes the horse fat ;' and, ' If you would be well
served, serve yourself.' Some gentlemen took plea-
sure in being their own gardeners, performing all the
scientific, and some of the manual, work themselves.
Well-dressed young men of my acquaintance, who had
their coat from a London tailor, would always brush
their evening suit themselves, rather than entrust
it to the carelessness of a rough servant, and to
the risks of dirt and grease in the kitchen ; for in

36 A Memoir of

those days servants' halls were not common in the
houses of the clergy and the smaller country gentry.
It was quite natural that Catherine Morland should
have contrasted the magnificence of the offices at
Northanger Abbey with the few shapeless pantries
in her father's parsonage. A young man who ex-
pected to have his things packed or unpacked for him
by a servant, when he travelled, would have been
thought exceptionally fine, or exceptionally lazy.
When my uncle undertook to teach me to shoot, his
first lesson was how to clean my own gun. It was
thought meritorious on the evening of a hunting day,
to turn out after dinner, lanthorn in hand, and visit
the stable, to ascertain that the horse had been well
cared for. This was of the more importance, because,
previous to the introduction of clipping, about the
year 1820, it was a difficult and tedious work to make
a long-coated hunter dry and comfortable, and was
often very imperfectly done. Of course, such things
were not practised by those who had gamekeepers,
and stud-grooms, and plenty of well-trained servants ;
but they were practised by many who were unequi-
vocally gentlemen, and whose grandsons, occupying
the same position in life, may perhaps be astonished
at being told that e such things were'

I have drawn pictures for which my own expe-
rience, or what I heard from others in my youth,
have supplied the materials. Of course, they cannot
be universally applicable. Such details varied in
various circles, and were changed very gradually ; nor
can I pretend to tell how much of what I have said

Jane Austen. 37

is descriptive of the family life at Steventon in Jane
Austen's youth. I am sure that the ladies there had
nothing to do with the mysteries of the stew-pot or
the preserving-pan ; but it is probable that their way
of life differed a little from ours, and would have ap-
peared to us more homely. It may be that useful
articles, which would not now be produced in drawing-
rooms, were hemmed, and marked, and darned in the
old-fashioned parlour. But all this concerned only
the outer life ; there was as much cultivation and re-
finement of mind as now, with probably more studied
courtesy and ceremony of manner to visitors ; whilst
certainly in that family literary pursuits were not
neglected.

I remember to have heard of only two little things
different from modern customs. One was, that on
hunting mornings the young men usually took their
hasty breakfast in the kitchen. The early hour at
which hounds then met may account for this ; and
probably the custom began, if it did not end, when
they were boys ; for they hunted at an early age, in a
scrambling sort of way, upon any pony or donkey
that they could procure, or, in default of such luxuries,
on foot. I have been told that Sir Francis Austen,
when seven years old, bought on his own account, it
must be supposed with his father's permission, a pony
for a guinea and a half; and after riding him with
great success for two seasons, sold him for a guinea
more. One may wonder how the child could have so
much money, and how the animal could have been
obtained for so little. The same authority informs

38 A Memoir of

me that his first cloth suit was made from a scarlet
habit, which, according to the fashion of the times,
had been his mother's usual morning dress. If all
this is true, the future admiral of the British Fleet
must have cut a conspicuous figure in the hunting-
field. The other peculiarity was that, when the roads
were dirty, the sisters took long walks in pattens.
This defence against wet and dirt is now seldom seen.
The few that remain are banished from good society,
and employed only in menial work ; but a hundred
and fifty years ago they were celebrated in poetry,
and considered so clever a contrivance that Gay, in
his ' Trivia/ ascribes the invention to a god stimulated
by his passion for a mortal damsel, and derives the
name ' Patten ' from 'Patty/

The patten now supports each frugal dame,
Which from the blue-eyed Patty takes the name.

But mortal damsels have long ago discarded the
clumsy implement. First it dropped its iron ring and
became a clog ; afterwards it was fined down into the
pliant galoshe— lighter to wear and more effectual to
protect — a no less manifest instance of gradual im-
provement than Cowper indicates when he traces
through eighty lines of poetry his 'accomplished sofa*
back to the original three-legged stool.

As an illustration of the purposes which a patten
was intended to serve, I add the following epigram,
written by Jane Austen's uncle, Mr. Leigh Perrot, on
reading in a newspaper the marriage of Captain Foote
to Miss Patten : —

Jane Austen. 39

Through the rough paths of life, with a patten your guard,

May you. safely and pleasantly jog ;
May the knot never slip, nor the ring press too hard,

Nor the Foot find the Patten a clog.

At the time when Jane Austen lived at Steventon,
a work was carried on in the neighbouring cottages
which ought to be recorded, because it has long
ceased to exist.

Up to the beginning of the present century, poor
women found profitable employment in spinning flax
or wool. This was a better occupation for them than
straw plaiting, inasmuch as it was carried on at the
family hearth, and did not admit of gadding and gos-
siping about the village. The implement used was a
long narrow machine of wood, raised on legs, fur-
nished at one end with a large wheel, and at the other
with a spindle on which the flax or wool was loosely
wrapped, connected together by a loop of string. One
hand turned the wheel, while the other formed the
thread. The outstretched arms, the advanced foot,
the sway of the whole figure backwards and forwards,
produced picturesque attitudes, and displayed what-
ever of grace or beauty the work-woman might pos-
sess.* Some ladies were fond of spinning, but they
worked in a quieter manner, sitting at a neat little
machine of varnished wood, like Tunbridge ware,
generally turned by the foot, with a basin of water at
hand to supply the moisture required for forming the
thread, which the cottager took by a more direct and

* Mrs. Gaskell, in her tale of ' Sylvia's Lovers,' declares that this
hand-spinning rivalled harp-playing in its gracefulness.

40 A Memoir of

natural process from her own mouth. I remember
two such elegant little wheels in our own family.

It may be observed that this hand-spinning is the
most primitive of female accomplishments, and can
be traced back to the. earliest times. Ballad poetry
and fairy tales are full of allusions to it. The term
' spinster * still testifies to its having been the ordinary
employment of the English young woman. It was
the labour assigned to the ejected nuns by the rough
earl who said, ' Go spin, ye jades, go spin.' It was
the employment at which Roman matrons and Gre-
cian princesses presided amongst their handmaids.
Heathen mythology celebrated it in the three Fates
spinning and measuring out the thread of human
life. Holy Scripture honours it in those ' wise-hearted
women * who 4 did spin with their hands, and brought
that which they had spun ' for the construction of the
Tabernacle in the wilderness : and an old English
proverb carries it still farther back to the time ' when
Adam delved and Eve span/ But, at last, this time-
honoured domestic manufacture is quite extinct
amongst us — crushed by the power of steam, over-
borne by a countless host of spinning jennies, and I
can only just remember some of its last struggles for
existence in the Steventon cottages.

Jane Austen. 41

CHAPTER III.

Early Compositions — Friends at Ashe — A very old Letter — Lines on the
Death of Mrs, Lefroy — Observations on Jane Austen's I^etter-ivriting
— Letters.

I KNOW little of Jane Austen's childhood. Her
mother followed a custom, not unusual in those days,
though it seems strange to us, of putting out her
babies to be nursed in a cottage in the village. The
infant was daily visited by one or both of its parents,
and frequently brought to them at the parsonage, but
the cottage was its home, and must have remained so
till it was old enough to run about and talk ; for I
know that one of them, in after life, used to speak of
his foster mother as ' Movie/ the name by which he
had called her in his infancy. It may be that the
contrast between the parsonage house and the best
class of cottages was not quite so extreme then as it
would be now, that the one was somewhat less luxuri-
ous, and the other less squalid. It would certainly
seem from the results that it was a wholesome and
invigorating system, for the children were all strong
and healthy. Jane was probably treated like the rest
in this respect. In childhood every available oppor-
tunity of instruction was made use of. According to
the ideas of the time, she was well educated, though

42 A Memoir of

not highly accomplished, and she certainly enjoyed
that important element of mental training, associating
at home with persons of cultivated intellect. It can-
not be doubted that her early years were bright and
happy, living, as she did, with indulgent parents, in a
cheerful home, not without agreeable variety of society.
To these sources of enjoyment must be added the first
stirrings of talent within her, and the absorbing in-
terest of original composition. It is impossible to say
at how early an age she began to write. There are
copy books extant containing tales some of which
must have been composed while she was a young girl,
as they had amounted to a considerable number by
the time she was sixteen. Her earliest stories are of
a slight and flimsy texture, and are generally intended
to be nonsensical, but the nonsense has much spirit
in it. They are usually preceded by a dedication of
mock solemnity to some one of her family. It would
seem that the grandiloquent dedications prevalent in
those days had not escaped her youthful penetration.
Perhaps the most characteristic feature in these early
productions is that, however puerile the matter, they
are always composed in pure simple English, quite
free from the over-ornamented style which might be
expected from so young a writer. One of her juvenile
effusions is given, as a specimen of the kind of tran-
sitory amusement which Jane was continually sup-
plying to the family party.

Jane Austen. 43

THE MYSTERY.

AN UNFINISHED COMEDY.

DEDICATION.

To the Rev. George Austen.

Sir, — I humbly solicit your patronage to the following
Comedy, which, though an unfinished one, is, I flatter myself,
as complete a Mystery as any of its kind.

I am, Sir, your most humble Servant,

The Author.

THE MYSTERY, A COMEDY.

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

Men.

Col. Elliott.
Old Humbug.
Young Humbug.
Sir Edward Spangle

and
CORYDON.

Women.

Fanny Elliott.
Mrs. Humbug

and
Daphne.

ACT I.

Scene I. — A Garden.
Enter Corydon.
Corydon. But hush : I am interrupted. [Exit Corydon.

Enter Old Humbug and his Son, talking.
Old Hum. It is for that reason that I wish you to follow
my advice. Are you convinced of its propriety ?

44 A Memoir of

Young Hum. I am, sir, and will certainly act in the
manner you have pointed out to me.

Old Hum. Then let us return to the house. [Exeunt.

Scene II. — A parlour in Humbug's house. Mrs. Humbug
and Fanny discovered at work.

Mrs. Hum. You understand me, my love ?
Fanny. Perfectly, ma'am : pray continue your narration.
Mrs. Hum. Alas ! it is nearly concluded ; for I have
nothing more to say on the subject.
Fan?iy. Ah ! here is Daphne.

E?iter Daphne.

Daphne. My dear Mrs. Humbug, how d'ye do ? Oh !
Fanny, it is all over.

Fanny. Is it indeed !

Mrs. Hum. I'm very sorry to hear it.

Fanny. Then 'twas to no purpose that I

Daphne. None upon earth.

Mrs. Hum. And what is to become of ?

Daphne. Oh ! 'tis all settled. ( Whispers Mrs. Humbug.)

Fanny. And how is it determined ?

Daphne. I'll tell you. ( Whispers Fanny.)

Mrs. Hum. And is he to ?

Daphne. I'll tell you all I know of the matter. ( Whispers
Mrs. Humbug and Fanny.)

Fanny. Well, now I know everything about it, I'll go away.

Mrs. Hum.) r

^ x 7 - And so mil I. [Exeunt.

Daphne. L

Scene III. — The curtain rises, and discovers Sir Edward
Spangle reclined in an elegant attitude on a sofa fast asleep.

Enter Col. Elliott.
Col. E. My daughter is not here, I see. There lies Sir

Jane A us ten. 45

Edward. Shall I tell him the secret ? No, he'll certainly
blab it. But he's asleep, and won't hear me ; — so I'll e'en
venture. {Goes tip to Sir Edward, whispers him, and exit.)

END OF THE FIRST ACT.
FINIS.

Her own mature opinion of the desirableness of
such an early habit of composition is given in the
following words of a niece : —

' As I grew older, my aunt would talk to me more
seriously of my reading and my amusements. I had
taken early to writing verses and stories, and I am
sorry to think how I troubled her with reading them.
She was very kind about it, and always had some
praise to bestow, but at last she warned me against
spending too much time upon them. She said — how
well I recollect it ! — that she knew writing stories was
a great amusement, and she thought a harmless one,
though many people, she was aware, thought other-
wise ; but that at my age it would be bad for me to
be much taken up with my own compositions. Later
still — it was after she had gone to Winchester — she
sent me a message to this effect, that if I would take
her advice I should cease writing till I was sixteen ; that
she had herself often wished she had read more, and
written less in the corresponding years of her own
life/ As this niece was only twelve years old at the
time of her aunt's death, these words seem to imply
that the juvenile tales to which I have referred had,
some of them at least, been written in her childhood.

46 A Memoir of

But between these childish effusions, and the com-
position of her living works, there intervened another
stage of her progress, during which she produced
some stories, not without merit, but which she never
considered worthy of publication. During this pre-
paratory period her mind seems to have been working
in a very different direction from that into which it
ultimately settled. Instead of presenting faithful
copies of nature, these tales were generally bur-
lesques, ridiculing the improbable events and ex-
aggerated sentiments which she had met with in
sundry silly romances. Something of this fancy is
to be found in ' Northanger Abbey/ but she soon left
it far behind in her subsequent course. It would
seem as if she were first taking note of all the faults
to be avoided, and curiously considering how she
ought not to write before she attempted to put forth
her strength in the right direction. The family have,
rightly, I think, declined to let these early works be
published. Mr. Shortreed observed very pithily of
Walter Scott's early rambles on the borders, ' He was
makin' himsell a' the time ; but he didna ken, may be,
what he was about till years had passed. At first he
thought of little, I dare say, but the queerness and
the fun. 5 And so, in a humbler way, Jane Austen
was 'makin' hersell/ little thinking of future fame,
but caring only for ' the queerness and the fun ; ' and
it would be as unfair to expose this preliminary pro-
cess to the world, as it would be to display all that
goes on behind the curtain of the theatre before it is
drawn up.

Jane Austen. 47

It was, however, at Steventon that the real founda-
tions of her fame were laid. There some of her most
successful writing was composed at such an early age
as to make it surprising that so young a woman could
have acquired the insight into character, and the nice
observation of manners which they display. 'Pride
and Prejudice/ which some consider the most brilliant
of her novels, was the first finished, if not the first
begun. She began it in October 1796, before she was
twenty-one years old, and completed it in about ten
months, in August 1797. The title then intended for
it was ' First Impressions.' l Sense and Sensibility '
was begun, in its present form, immediately after the
completion of the former, in November 1797 ; but
something similar in story and character had been
written earlier under the title of ' Elinor and Mari-
anne ; ' and if, as is probable, a good deal of this
earlier production was retained, it must form the
earliest specimen of her writing that has been given
to the world. ' Northanger Abbey/ though not pre-
pared for the press till 1803, was certainly first com-
posed in 1798.

Amongst the most valuable neighbours of the
Austens were Mr. and Mrs. Lefroy and their family.
He was rector of the adjoining parish of Ashe ; she
was sister to Sir Egerton Brydges, to whom we are
indebted for the earliest notice of Jane Austen that
exists. In his autobiography, speaking of his visits
at Ashe, he writes thus : ' The nearest neighbours of
the Lefroys were the Austens of Steventon. I re-
member Jane Austen, the novelist, as a little child.

48 A Memoir of

She was very intimate with Mrs. Lefroy, and much
encouraged by her. Her mother was a Miss Leigh,
whose paternal grandmother was sister to the first
Duke of Chandos. Mr. Austen was of a Kentish
family, of which several branches have been settled in
the Weald of Kent, and some are still remaining
there. When I knew Jane Austen, I never suspected
that she was an authoress ; but my eyes told me that
she was fair and handsome, slight and elegant, but
with cheeks a little too full/ One may wish that
Sir Egerton had dwelt rather longer on the subject
of these memoirs, instead of being drawn away by his
extreme love for genealogies to her great-grand-
mother and ancestors. That great-grandmother how-
ever lives in the family records as Mary Brydges,
a daughter of Lord Chandos, married in Westminster
Abbey to Theophilus Leigh of Addlestrop in 1698.
When a girl she had received a curious letter of
advice and reproof, written by her mother from Con-
stantinople. Mary, or ' Poll,' was remaining in Eng-
land with her grandmother, Lady Bernard, who seems
to have been wealthy and inclined to be too indul-
gent to her granddaughter. This letter is given.
Any such authentic document, two hundred years
old, dealing with domestic details, must possess some
interest This is remarkable, not only as a specimen
of the homely language in which ladies of rank then
expressed themselves, but from the sound sense
which it contains. Forms of expression vary, but
good sense and right principles are the same in the
nineteenth that they were in the seventeenth century.

Jane Auste?z. 49

* My dea'res Poll,
' Y r letters by Cousin Robbert Serle arrived here
not before the 27 th of Aprill, yett were they hartily
wellcome to us, bringing y e joyful news which a great
while we had longed for of my most dear Mother &
all other relations & friends good health which I
beseech God continue to you all, & as I observe in
y rs to y r Sister Betty y e extraordinary kindness of
(as I may truly say) the best Moth r & G nd Moth r in
the world in pinching herself to make you fine, so I
cannot but admire her great good Housewifry in
affording you so very plentifull an allowance, & yett
to increase her Stock at the rate I find she hath
done ; & think I can never sufficiently mind you how
very much it is y r duty on all occasions to pay her
y r gratitude in all humble submission & obedience to
all her commands soe long as you live. I must tell
you 'tis to her bounty & care in y e greatest measure
you are like to owe y r well living in this world, & as
you cannot but be very sensible you are an extra-
ordinary charge to her so it behoves you to take par-
ticular heed th* in y e whole course of y r life, you
render her a proportionable comfort, especially since
'tis y 6 best way you can ever hope to make her such
amends as God requires of y r hands, but Poll ! it
grieves me a little & y* I am forced to take notice of
& reprove you for some vaine expressions in y r lett rs
to y r Sister — you say concerning y r allowance " you
aime to bring y r bread & cheese even " in this I do
not discommend you, for a foule shame indeed it
would be should you out run the Constable having

E

50 A Meinoir of

soe liberall a provision made you for y r ma i nance
— but y e reason you give for y r resolution \ c \ t at
all approve for you say " to spend more yo an't "
thats because you have it not to spend, oth^ ise it
seems you would. So y 1 'tis y r Grandmoth 1 "" scre-
tion & not yours th* keeps you from extrav incy,
which plainly appears in y e close of y r senteno say-
ing y* you think it simple covetousness to save ut of
y rs but 'tis my opinion if you lay all on y r ba k 'tis
ten tymes a greater sin & shame th n to save ^ome
what out of soe large an allowance in y r purse to
help you at a dead lift. Child, we all know our
beginning, but who knows his end ? Y e best use th*
can be made of fair weath r is to provide against foule
& 'tis great discretion & of noe small commenda-
tions for a young woman betymes to shew herself
housewifly & frugal. Y r Mother neither Maide nor
wife ever yett bestowed forty pounds a yeare on
herself & yett if you never fall und r a worse reputa-
tion in y e world th n she (I thank God for it) hath
hitherto done, you need not repine at it, & you can-
not be ignorant of y e difference th* was between my
fortune & what you are to expect. You ought like-
wise to consider th* you have seven brothers & sisters
& you are all one man's children & therefore it is
very unreasonable that one should expect to be pre-
ferred in finery soe much above all y e rest for 'tis
impossible you should soe much mistake y r fTather's
condition as to fancy he is able to allow every one of
you forty pounds a yeare a piece, for such an allow-
ance with the charge of their diett over and above

Jane A listen. 5 1

will amount to at least five hundred pounds a yeare,
a sum y r poor ffather can ill spare, besides doe but
bethink y r self what a ridiculous sight it will be when
y r grandmoth r & you come to us to have noe less th n
seven waiting gentlewomen in one house, for what
reason can you give why every one of y r Sist rs should
not have every one of y m a Maide as well as you, &
though you may spare to pay y r maide's wages out
of y r allowance yett you take no care of y e unne-
cessary charge you put y r ffath r to in y r increase of
his family, whereas if it were not a piece of pride to
have y e name of keeping y r maide she y* waits on y r
good Grandmother might easily doe as formerly
you know she hath done, all y e business you have for
a maide unless as you grow old r you grow a veryer
Foole which God forbid !

'Poll, you live in a place where you see great
plenty & splendour but let not y e allurements of
earthly pleasures tempt you to forget or neglect y e
duty of a good Christian in dressing y r bett r part
which is y r soule, as will best please God. I am not
against y r going decent & neate as becomes y r
ffathers daughter but to clothe y r self rich & be run-
ning into every gaudy fashion can never become y r
circumstances & instead of doing you creditt &
getting you a good prefer 11 * it is y e readiest way you
can take to fright all sober men from ever thinking of
matching th m selves with women that live above thy r
fortune, & if this be a wise way of spending money
judge you ! & besides, doe but reflect what an od

52 A Memoir of

sight it will be to a stranger that comes to our house
to see y r Grandmoth 1 " y r Moth r & all y r Sisters in a
plane dress & you only trick d up like a bartlemew-
babby — you know what sort of people those are th*
can't faire well but they must cry rost meate now
what effect could you imagine y r writing in such a
high straine to y r Sisters could have but eithe r to pro-
voke th m to envy you or murmur against us. I must
tell you neith r of y r Sisters have ever had twenty
pounds a yeare allowance from us yett, & yett they r
dress hath not disparaged neith r th m nor us & without
incurring y e censure of simple covetousness they will
have some what to shew out of their saving that will
doe th ra creditt & I expect y t you th* are theyr elder
Sister sh d rather sett th m examples of y e like nature
th n tempt th m from treading in y e steps of their good
Grandmoth r & poor Moth r . This is not half what
might be saide on this occasion but believing thee to
be a very good natured dutyfull child I sh d have
thought it a great deal too much but y* having in my
coming hither past through many most desperate
dangers I cannot forbear thinking & preparing my-
self for all events, & therefore not knowing how it
may please God to dispose of us I conclude it my
duty to God & thee my d r child to lay this matter
as home to thee as I could, assuring you my daily
prayers are not nor shall not be wanting that God
may give you grace always to remember to make
a right use of this truly affectionate counsell of
y r poor Moth r . & though I speak very plaine down-
right english to you yett I would not have you doubt

Jane Austen. 53

but that I love you as hartily as any child I have &
if you serve God and take good courses I promise
you my kindness to you shall be according to y r
own hart's desire, for you may be certain I can aime
at nothing in what I have now writ but y r real good
which to promote shall be y e study & care day & night
' Of my dear Poll
' thy truly affectionate Moth r .

' Eliza Chandos.

' Pera of Galata, May y e 6th 1686.

' P.S. — Thy ffath r & I send thee our blessing, &
all thy broth rs & sist rs they r service. Our harty &
affectionate service to my broth r & sist r Childe & all
my dear cozens. When you see my Lady Worster
& cozen Howlands pray present th m my most humble
service/

This letter shows that the wealth acquired by trade
was already manifesting itself in contrast with the
straitened circumstances of some of the nobility.
Mary Brydges's ' poor ffather/ in whose household
economy was necessary, was the King of England's
ambassador at Constantinople ; the grandmother,
who lived in ' great plenty and splendour/ was the
widow of a Turkey merchant. But then, as now,
it would seem, rank had the power of attracting and
absorbing wealth.

At Ashe also Jane became acquainted with a
member of the Lefroy family, who was still living
when I began these memoirs, a few months ago ; the
Right Hon. Thomas Lefroy, late Chief Justice of

54 A Memoir of

Ireland. One must look back more than seventy
years to reach the time when these two bright young
persons were, for a short time, intimately acquainted
with each other, and then separated on their several
courses, never to meet again ; both destined to attain
some distinction in their different ways, one to sur-
vive the other for more than half a century, yet in his
extreme old age to remember and speak, as he some-
times did, of his former companion, as one to be
much admired, and not easily forgotten by those who
had ever known her.

Mrs. Lefroy herself was a remarkable person. Her
rare endowments of goodness, talents, graceful person,,
and engaging manners, were sufficient to secure her a
prominent place in any society into which she was
thrown; while her enthusiastic eagerness of disposi-
tion rendered her especially attractive to a clever and
lively girl. She was killed by a fall from her horse
on Jane's birthday, Dec. 16, 1804. The following
lines to her memory were written by Jane four years
afterwards, when she was thirty-three years old.
They are given, not for their merits as poetry, but ta
show how deep and lasting was the impression made
by the elder friend on the mind of the younger : —

To the Memory of Mrs. Lefroy.

The day returns again, my natal day \
What mix'd emotions in my mind arise I

Beloved Friend ; four years have passed away
Since thou wert snatched for ever from our eyes.

Jane Attsten. 55

The day commemorative of my birth,

Bestowing life, and light, and hope to me,

Brings back the hour which was thy last on earth,
O ! bitter pang of torturing memory !

3-
Angelic woman ! past my power to praise

In language meet thy talents, temper, mind,
Thy solid worth, thy captivating grace,

Thou friend and ornament of human kind.

4-
But come, fond Fancy, thou indulgent power ;

Hope is desponding, chill, severe, to thee :
Bless thou this little portion of an hour;

Let me behold her as she used to be.

5-
I see her here with all her smiles benign,

Her looks of eager love, her accents sweet,
That voice and countenance almost divine,

Expression, harmony, alike complete.

6.

Listen ! It is not sound alone, 'tis sense,
'Tis genius, taste, and tenderness of soul :

'Tis genuine warmth of heart without pretence,
And purity of mind that crowns the whole.

7-
She speaks ! 'Tis eloquence, that grace of tongue,

So rare, so lovely, never misapplied
By her, to palliate vice, or deck a wrong :

She speaks and argues but on virtue's side.

56 A Memoir of

Hers is the energy of soul sincere ;

Her Christian spirit, ignorant to feign,
Seeks but to comfort, heal, enlighten, cheer,

Confer a pleasure or prevent a pain.

9-
Can aught enhance such goodness ? yes, to me

Her partial favour from my earliest years
Consummates all : ah ! give me but to see

Her smile of love ! The vision disappears.

Tis past and gone. We meet no more below.

Short is the cheat of Fancy o'er the tomb.
Oh ! might I hope to equal bliss to go,

To meet thee, angel, in thy future home.

Fain would I feel an union with thy fate :
Fain would I seek to draw an omen fair

From this connection in our earthly date.

Indulge the harmless weakness. Reason, spare.

The loss of their first home is generally a great
grief to young persons of strong feeling and lively
imagination; and Jane was exceedingly unhappy
when she was told that her father, now seventy years
of age, had determined to resign his duties to his
eldest son, who was to be his successor in the Rectory
of Steventon, and to remove with his wife and daugh-
ters to Bath. Jane had been absent from home when
this resolution was taken ; and, as her father was

Jane Austen. 57

always rapid both in forming his resolutions and in
acting on them, she had little time to reconcile herself
to the change.

A wish has sometimes been expressed that some
of Jane Austen's letters should be published. Some
entire letters, and many extracts, will be given in this
memoir ; but the reader must be warned not to expect
too much from them. With regard to accuracy of
language indeed every word of them might be printed
without correction. The style is always clear, and
generally animated, while a vein of humour continu-
ally gleams through the whole ; but the materials
may be thought inferior to the execution, for they
treat only of the details of domestic life. There is in
them no notice of politics or public events ; scarcely
any discussions on literature, or other subjects of
general interest. They may be said to resemble the
nest which some little bird builds of the materials
nearest at hand, of the twigs and mosses supplied by
the tree in which it is placed ; curiously constructed
out of the simplest matters.

Her letters have very seldom the date of the year,
or the signature of her christian name at full length ;
but it has been easy to ascertain their dates, either
from the post-mark, or from their contents.

The two following letters are the earliest that I have
seen. They were both written in November 1800;
before the family removed from Steventon. Some of
the same circumstances are referred to in both.

58 A Memoir of

The first is to her sister Cassandra, who was then
staying with their brother Edward at Godmersham
Park, Kent : —

* Steventon, Saturday evening, Nov. 8th.

My dear Cassandra,
' I thank you for so speedy a return to my two last,
and particularly thank you for your anecdote of
Charlotte Graham and her cousin, Harriet Bailey,
which has very much amused both my mother and
myself. If you can learn anything farther of that
interesting affair, I hope you will mention it. I have
two messages ; let me get rid of them, and then my
paper will be my own. Mary fully intended writing
to you by Mr. Chute's frank, and only happened en-
tirely to forget it, but will write soon ; and my father
wishes Edward to send him a memorandum of the
price of the hops. The tables are come, and give
general contentment. I had not expected that they
would so perfectly suit the fancy of us all three, or
that we should so well agree in the disposition of
them ; but nothing except their own surface can have
been smoother. The two ends put together form one
constant table for everything, and the centre piece
stands exceedingly well under the glass, and holds a
great deal most commodiously, without looking awk-
wardly. They are both covered with green baize, and
send their best love. The Pembroke has got its des-
tination by the sideboard, and my mother has great
delight in keeping her money and papers locked up.
The little table which used to stand there has most
conveniently taken itself off into the best bedroom ;

Jane Austen. 59

and we are now in want only of the chiffonniere,
is neither finished nor come. So much for that sub-
ject ; I now come to another, of a very different
nature, as other subjects are very apt to be. Earle
Harwood has been again giving uneasiness to his
family and talk to the neighbourhood ; in the present
instance, however, he is only unfortunate, and not in
fault

'About ten days ago, in cocking a pistol in the
guard-room at Marcau, he accidentally shot himself
through the thigh. Two young Scotch surgeons in
the island were polite enough to propose taking off
the thigh at once, but to that he would not consent ;
and accordingly in his wounded state was put on
board a cutter and conveyed to Haslar Hospital, at
Gosport, where the bullet was extracted, and where
he now is, I hope, in a fair way of doing well. The
surgeon of the hospital wrote to the family on the
occasion, and John Harwood went down to him im-
mediately, attended by James,* whose object in going
was to be the means of bringing back the earliest
intelligence to Mr. and Mrs. Harwood, whose anxious
sufferings, particularly those of the latter, have of
course been dreadful. They went down on Tuesday,
and James came back the next day, bringing such
favourable accounts as greatly to lessen the distress of
the family at Deane, though it will probably be a long
while before Mrs. Harwood can be quite at ease. One
most material comfort, however, they have ; the assur-
ance of its being really an accidental wound, which is
not only positively declared by Earle himself, but is

* James, the writer's eldest brother.

6o A Memoir of

likewise testified by the particular direction of the
bullet. Such a wound could not have been received
in a duel. At present he is going on very well, but
the surgeon will not declare him to be in no danger.*
Mr. Heathcote met with a genteel little accident the
other day in hunting. He got off to lead his horse
over a hedge, or a house, or something, and his horse
in his haste trod upon his leg, or rather ancle, I
believe, and it is net certain whether the small bone
is not broke. Martha has accepted Mary's invitation
for Lord Portsmouth's ball. He has not yet sent out
his own invitations, but that does not signify; Martha
comes, and a ball there is to be. I think it will be
too early in her mother's absence for me to return
with her.

' Sunday Evening.— -We have had a dreadful storm
of wind in the fore part of this day, which has done a
great deal of mischief among our trees. I was sitting
alone in the dining-room when an odd kind of crash
startled me — in a moment afterwards it was repeated.
I then went to the window, which I reached just in
time to see the last of our two highly valued elms
descend into the Sweep ! ! ! ! ! The other, which had
fallen, I suppose, in the first crash, and which was the
nearest to the pond, taking a more easterly direction,
sunk among our screen of chestnuts and firs, knocking
down one spruce-fir, beating off the head of another,
and stripping the two corner chestnuts of several
branches in its fall. This is not all. One large
elm out of the two on the left-hand side as you.

* The limb was saved.

Jane Austen. 61

enter what I call the elm walk, was likewise blown
down ; the maple bearing the weathercock was broke
in two, and what I regret more than all the rest is,
that all the three elms which grew in Hall's meadow,
and gave such ornament to it, are gone ; two were
blown down, and the other so much injured that it
cannot stand. I am happy to add, however, that no
greater evil than the loss of trees has been the conse-
quence of the storm in this place, or in our imme-
diate neighbourhood. We grieve, therefore, in some
comfort.

' I am yours ever, 'J. A.'

The next letter, written four days later than the
former, was addressed to Miss Lloyd, an intimate
friend, whose sister (my mother) was married to
Jane's eldest brother : —

' Steventon, Wednesday evening, Nov. 1 2th.

' My dear Martha,
'I did not receive your note yesterday till after
Charlotte had left Deane, or I would have sent my
answer by her, instead of being the means, as I now
must be, of lessening the elegance of your new dress
for the Hurstbourne ball by the value of ^d. You
are very good in wishing to see me at Ibthorp so
soon, and I am equally good in wishing to come to
you. I believe our merit in that respect is much
upon a par, our self-denial mutually strong. Having
paid this tribute of praise to the virtue of both, I
shall here have done with panegyric, and proceed to

62 A Memoir of

plain matter of fact. In about a fortnight's time I hope
to be with you. I have two reasons for not being
able to come before. I wish so to arrange my visit
as to spend some days with you after your mother's
return. In the 1st place, that I may have the plea-
sure of seeing her, and in the 2nd, that I may have a
better chance of bringing you back with me. Your
promise in my favour was not quite absolute, but if
your will is not perverse, you and I will do all in our
power to overcome your scruples of conscience. I
hope we shall meet next week to talk all this over,
till we have tired ourselves with the very idea of my
visit before my visit begins. Our invitations for the
19th are arrived, and very curiously are they worded.*
Mary mentioned to you yesterday poor Earle's unfor-
tunate accident, I dare say. He does not seem to be
going on very well. The two or three last posts have
brought less and less favourable accounts of him.
John Harwood has gone to Gosport again to-day.
We have two families of friends now who are in a
most anxious state ; for though by a note from Cathe-
rine this morning there seems now to be a revival of
hope at Manydown, its continuance may be too rea-
sonably doubted. Mr. Heathcote,f however, who has

* The invitation, the ball dress, and some other things in this and
the preceding letter refer to a ball annually given at Hurstbourne Park,
on the anniversary of the Earl of Portsmouth's marriage with his first
wife. He was the Lord Portsmouth whose eccentricities afterwards be-
came notorious, and the invitations, as well as other arrangements about
these balls, were of a peculiar character.

+ The father of Sir William Heathcote, of Hursley, who was married
to a daughter of Mr. Bigg Wither, of Manydown, and lived in the
neighbourhood.

Jane A listen. 63

broken the small bone of his leg, is so good as to be
going on very well. It would be really too much to
have three people to care for.

' You distress me cruelly by your request about
books. I cannot think of any to bring with me, nor
have I any idea of our wanting them. I come to you
to be talked to, not to read or hear reading ; I can do
that at home ; and indeed I am now laying in a stock
of intelligence to pour out on you as my share of the
conversation. I am reading Henry's History of Eng-
land, which I will repeat to you in any manner you
may prefer, either in a loose, desultory, unconnected
stream, or dividing my recital, as the historian divides
it himself, into seven parts : — The Civil and Military:
Religion : Constitution : Learning and Learned Men :
Arts and Sciences : Commerce, Coins, and Shipping :
and Manners. So that for every evening in the week
there will be a different subject. The Friday's lot —
Commerce, Coins, and Shipping — you will find the
least entertaining ; but the next evening's portion will
make amends. With such a provision on my part, if
you will do yours by repeating the French Grammar,
and Mrs. Stent* will now and then ejaculate some
wonder about the cocks and hens, what can we want ?
Farewell for a short time. We all unite in best love,
and I am your very affectionate

'J. A.'

The two next letters must have been written early
in 1 801, after the removal from Steventon had been

* A very dull old lady, then residing with Mrs. Lloyd.

64 A Memoir of

decided on, but before it had taken place. They
refer to the two brothers who were at sea, and give
some idea of a kind of anxieties and uncertainties to
which sisters are seldom subject in these days of
peace, steamers, and electric telegraphs. At that time
ships were often windbound or becalmed, or driven
wide of their destination ; and sometimes they had
orders to alter their course for some secret service ;
not to mention the chance of conflict with a vessel of
superior power — no improbable occurrence before the
battle of Trafalgar. Information about relatives on
board men-of-war was scarce and scanty, and often
picked up by hearsay or chance means ; and every
scrap of intelligence was proportionably valuable : —

1 My dear Cassandra,
' I should not have thought it necessary to write to
you so soon, but for the arrival of a letter from Charles
to myself. It was written last Saturday from off the
Start, and conveyed to Popham Lane by Captain
Boyle, on his way to Midgham. He came from Lisbon
in the " Endymion." I will copy Charles's account of
his conjectures about Frank : " He has not seen my
brother lately, nor does he expect to find him arrived,
as he met Captain Inglis at Rhodes, going up to take
command of the ' Petrel,' as he was coming down ;
but supposes he will arrive in less than a fortnight
from this time, in some ship which is expected to
reach England about that time with dispatches from
Sir Ralph Abercrombie." The event must show what
sort of a conjuror Captain Boyle is. The " Endy-

Jane Austen. 65

mion" has not been plagued with any more prizes.
Charles spent three pleasant days in Lisbon.

' They were very well satisfied with their royal
passenger,* whom they found jolly and affable, who
talks of Lady Augusta as his wife, and seems much
attached to her.

'When this letter was written, the "Endymion"
was becalmed, but Charles hoped to reach Ports-
mouth by Monday or Tuesday. He received my
letter, communicating our plans, before he left Eng-
land ; was much surprised, of course, but is quite
reconciled to them, and means to come to Steventon
once more while Steventon is ours.'

From a letter written later in the same year: —
' Charles has received 30/. for his share of the pri-
vateer, and expects 10/. more ; but of what avail is it
to take prizes if he lays out the produce in presents
to his sisters ? He has been buying gold chains and
topaze crosses for us. He must be well scolded. The
" Endymion" has already received orders for taking
troops to Egypt, which I should not like at all if I
did not trust to Charles being removed from her
somehow or other before she sails. He knows nothing
of his own destination, he says, but desires me to
write directly, as the "Endymion" will probably sail
in three or four days. He will receive my yesterday's
letter, and I shall write again by this post to thank
and reproach him. We shall be unbearably fine.'

* The Duke of Sussex, son of George III., married, without royal
consent, to the Lady Augusta Murray.

F

66 A Memoir of

CHAPTER IV.

Removal from Steventon — Residences at Bath and at Southampton-
Settling at Ckawton.

THE family removed to Bath in the spring of 1801,
where they resided first at No. 4 Sydney Terrace,
and afterwards in Green Park Buildings. I do not
know whether they were at all attracted to Bath by
the circumstance that Mrs. Austen's only brother,
Mr. Leigh Perrot, spent part of every year there. The
name of Perrot, together with a small estate at North-
leigh in Oxfordshire, had been bequeathed to him by
a great uncle. I must devote a few sentences to this
very old and now extinct branch of the Perrot family ;
for one of the last survivors, Jane Perrot, married to a
Walker, was Jane Austen's great grandmother, from
whom she derived her Christian name. The Perrots
were settled in Pembrokeshire at least as early as the
thirteenth century. They were probably some of the
settlers whom the policy of our Plantagenet kings
placed in that county, which thence acquired the
name of ' England beyond Wales/ for the double
purpose of keeping open a communication with
Ireland from Milford Haven, and of overawing the
Welsh. One of the family seems to have carried out

Jane A usten, 6j

this latter purpose very vigorously ; for it is recorded
of him that he slew twenty-six men of Kemaes, a dis-
trict of Wales, and one wolf. The manner in which
the two kinds of game are classed together, and the
disproportion of numbers, are remarkable ; but pro-
bably at that time the wolves had been so closely
killed down, that lupicide was become a more rare
and distinguished exploit than homicide. The last of
this family died about 1778, and their property was
divided between Leighs and Musgraves, the larger
portion going to the latter. Mr. Leigh Perrot pulled
down the mansion, and sold the estate to the Duke of
Marlborough, and the name of these Perrots is now
to be found only on some monuments in the church
of Northleigh.

Mr. Leigh Perrot was also one of several cousins to
whom a life interest in the Stoneleigh property in
Warwickshire was left, after the extinction of the
earlier Leigh peerage, but he compromised his claim
to the succession in his lifetime. He married a niece
of Sir Montague Cholmeley of Lincolnshire. He was
a man of considerable natural power, with much of
the wit of his uncle, the Master of Balliol, and wrote
clever epigrams and riddles, some of which, though
without his name, found their way into print ; but he
lived a very retired life, dividing his time between
Bath and his place in Berkshire called Scarlets.
Jane's letters from Bath make frequent mention of
this uncle and aunt.

The unfinished story, now published under the title
of 'The Watsons,' must have been written during

68 A Memoir of

the author's residence in Bath. In the autumn of
1804 she spent some weeks at Lyme, and became
acquainted with the Cobb, which she afterwards
made memorable for the fall of Louisa Musgrove.
In February 1805, her father died at Bath, and
was buried at Walcot Church. The widow and
daughters went into lodgings for a few months, and
then removed to Southampton. The only records
that I can find about her during those four years are
the three following letters to her sister; one from
Lyme, the others from Bath. They shew that she
went a good deal into society, in a quiet way, chiefly
with ladies ; and that her eyes were always open to
minute traits of character in those with whom she
associated : —

Extract from a letter from Jane Auste7i to her Sister.

* Lyme, Friday, Sept. 14 (1804).

4 My dear Cassandra, — I take the first sheet of
fine striped paper to thank you for your letter from
Weymouth, and express my hopes of your being at
Ibthorp before this time. I expect to hear that you
reached it yesterday evening, being able to get as far
as Blandford on Wednesday. Your account of Wey-
mouth contains nothing which strikes me so forcibly
as there being no ice in the town. For every other
vexation I was in some measure prepared, and par-
ticularly for your disappointment in not seeing the
Royal Family go on board on Tuesday, having
already heard from Mr. Crawford that he had seen
you in the very act of being too late. But for there

Jane A listen. 69

being no ice, what could prepare me ! You found
my letter at Andover, I hope, yesterday, and have
now for many hours been satisfied that your kind
anxiety on my behalf was as much thrown away as
kind anxiety usually is. I continue quite well; in
proof of which I have bathed again this morning.
It was absolutely necessary that I should have the
little fever and indisposition which I had : it has been
all the fashion this week in Lyme. We are quite
settled in our lodgings by this time, as you may
suppose, and everything goes on in the usual order.
The servants behave very well, and make no diffi-
culties, though nothing certainly can exceed the
inconvenience of the offices, except the general
dirtiness of the house and furniture, and all its in-
habitants. I endeavour, as far as I can, to supply
your place, and be useful, and keep things in order.
I detect dirt in the water decanters, as fast as I can,
and keep everything as it was under your adminis-
tration. . . . The ball last night was pleasant, but
not full for Thursday. My father staid contentedly
till half-past nine (we went a little after eight), and
then walked home with James and a lanthorn, though
I believe the lanthorn was not lit, as the moon was
up ; but sometimes this lanthorn may be a great
convenience to him. My mother and I staid about
an hour later. Nobody asked me the two first
dances ; the two next I danced with Mr. Crawford,
and had I chosen to stay longer might have danced
with Mr. Granville, Mrs. Granville's son, whom my
dear friend Miss A. introduced to me, or with a new

A Memoir of

odd-looking man who had been eyeing me for some
time, and at last, without any introduction, asked me
if I meant to dance again. I think he must be Irish
by his ease, and because I imagine him to belong to
the hon bI B.'s, who are son, and son's wife of an Irish
viscount, bold queer-looking people, just fit to be
quality at Lyme. I called yesterday morning (ought
it not in strict propriety to be termed yester-morn-
ing ?) on Miss A. and was introduced to her father
and mother. Like other young ladies she is con-
siderably genteeler than her parents. Mrs. A. sat
darning a pair of stockings the whole of my visit.
But do not mention this at home, lest a warning
should act as an example. We afterwards walked
together for an hour on the Cobb ; she is very con-
verseable in a common way ; I do not perceive wit
or genius, but she has sense and some degree of
taste, and her manners are very engaging. She
seems to like people rather too easily.

' Yours affect 1 *,

*j. a:

Letter from Jane Austen to her sister Cassandra at
Ibthorp, alluding to the sudden death of Mrs. Lloyd
at that place : —

1 25 Gay Street (Bath), Monday,

* April 8, 1805.

' My dear Cassandra, — Here is a day for you.
Did Bath or Ibthorp ever see such an 8th of April ?
It is March and April together ; the glare of the one
and the warmth of the other. We do nothing but

Jane Austen. yi

walk about. As far as your means will admit, I hope
you profit by such weather too. I dare say you are
already the better for change of place. We were out
again last night Miss Irvine invited us, when I met
her in the Crescent, to drink tea with them, but I
rather declined it, having no idea that my mother
would be disposed for another evening visit there so
soon ; but when I gave her the message, I found her
very well inclined to go ; and accordingly, on leaving
Chapel, we walked to Lansdown. This morning we
have been to see Miss Chamberlaine look hot on
horseback. Seven years and four months ago we
went to the same riding-house to see Miss Lefroy's
performance !* What a different set are we now
moving in ! But seven years, I suppose, are enough
to change every pore of one's skin and every feeling
of one's mind. We did not walk long in the Crescent
yesterday. It was hot and not crowded enough ; so
we went into the field, and passed close by S. T. and
Miss S.j again. I have not yet seen her face, but
neither her dress nor air have anything of the dash or
stylishness which the Browns talked of; quite the
contrary ; indeed, her dress is not even smart, and her
appearance very quiet. Miss Irvine says she is never
speaking a word. Poor wretch ; I am afraid she is
en penitence. Here has been that excellent Mrs.
Coulthart calling, while my mother was out, and I
was believed to be so. I always respected her 5 as a

* Here is evidence that Jane Austen was acquainted with Bath before
it became her residence in 1801. See p. 23.

+ A gentleman and lady lately engaged to be married.

J2 A Memoir of

good-hearted friendly woman. And the Browns have
been here ; I find their affidavits on the table. The
"Ambuscade" reached Gibraltar on the 9th of March,
arid found all well ; so say the papers. We have had
no letters from anybody, but we expect to hear from
Edward to-morrow, and from you soon afterwards.
How happy they are at Godmersham now ! I shall be
very glad of a letter from Ibthorp, that I may know
how you all are, but particularly yourself. This is
nice weather for Mrs. J. Austen's going to Speen, and
I hope she will have a pleasant visit there. I expect
a prodigious account of the christening dinner ; per-
haps it brought you at last into the company of Miss
Dundas again.

' Tuesday. — I received your letter last night, and
wish it may be soon followed by another to say that
all is over ; but I cannot help thinking that nature
will struggle again, and produce a revival. Poor
woman ! May her end be peaceful and easy as the
exit we have witnessed ! And I dare say it w T ill. If
there is no revival, suffering must be all over ; even the
consciousness of existence, I suppose, was gone when
you wrote. The nonsense I have been writing in this
and in my last letter seems out of place at such a
time, but I will not mind it ; it will do you no harm,
and nobody else will be attacked by it. I am heartily
glad that you can speak so comfortably of your own
health and looks, though I can scarcely comprehend
the latter being really approved. Could travelling
fifty miles produce such an immediate change ? You
were looking very poorly here, and everybody seemed

Jane Austen. j$

sensible of it. Is there a charm in a hack post-
chaise ? But if there were, Mrs. Craven's carriage
might have undone it all. I am much obliged to you
for the time and trouble you have bestowed on
Mary's cap, and am glad it pleases her ; but it will
prove a useless gift at present, I suppose. Will not
she leave Ibthorp on her mother's death ? As a
companion you are all that Martha can be supposed
to want, and in that light, under these circumstances,
your visit will indeed have been well timed.

* TJmrsday. — I was not able to go on yesterday ;
all my wit and leisure were bestowed on letters to
Charles and Henry. To the former I wrote in conse-
quence of my mother's having seen in the papers that
the " Urania " was waiting at Portsmouth for the
convoy for Halifax. This is nice, as it is only three
weeks ago that you wrote by the "Camilla." I wrote
to Henry because I had a letter from him in which
he desired to hear from me very soon. His to me
was most affectionate and kind, as well as entertain-
ing ; there is no merit to him in that ; he cannot help
being amusing. He offers to meet us on the sea
coast, if the plan of which Edward gave him some
hint takes place. Will not this be making the exe-
cution of such a plan more desirable and delightful
than ever ? He talks of the rambles we took together
last summer with pleasing affection.

' Yours ever,

*j. a:

A Memoir of

From the same to the same.

' Gay St. Sunday Evening,

'April 21 (1805).

'My dear Cassandra, — I am much obliged to
you for writing to me again so soon; your letter
yesterday was quite an unexpected pleasure. Poor
Mrs. Stent ! it has been her lot to be always in the
way ; but we must be merciful, for perhaps in time
we may come to be Mrs. Stents ourselves, unequal
to anything, and unwelcome to everybody. . . . My
morning engagement was with the Cookes, and our
party consisted of George and Mary, a Mr. L., Miss
B., who had been with us at the concert, and the
youngest Miss W. Not Julia ; we have done with
her ; she is very ill ; but Mary. Mary W.'s turn is
actually come to be grown up, and have a fine com-
plexion, and wear great square muslin shawls. I have
not expressly enumerated myself among the party,
but there I was, and my cousin George was very
kind, and talked sense to me every now and then, in
the intervals of his more animated fooleries with Miss
B., who is very young, and rather handsome, and
whose gracious manners, ready wit, and solid remarks,
put me somewhat in mind of my old acquaintance
L. L. There was a monstrous deal of stupid quizzing
and common-place nonsense talked, but scarcely any
wit ; all that bordered on it or on sense came from
my cousin George, whom altogether I like very well.
Mr. B. seems nothing more than a tall young man.
My evening engagement and walk was with Miss A.,

Jane Austen, 75

who had called on me the day before, and gently up-
braided me in her turn with a change of manners to
her since she had been in Bath, or at least of late.
Unlucky me ! that my notice should be of such con-
sequence, and my manners so bad ! She was so well
disposed, and so reasonable, that I soon forgave her,
and made this engagement with her in proof of it
She is really an agreeable girl, so I think I may like
her; and her great want of a companion at home,
which may well make any tolerable acquaintance im-
portant to her, gives her another claim on my attention.
I shall endeavour as much as possible to keep my
intimacies in their proper place, and prevent their
clashing. Among so many friends, it will be well if I
do not get into a scrape ; and now here is Miss
Blashford come. I should have gone distracted if the
Bullers had staid. . . . When I tell you I have been
visiting a countess this morning, you will immediately,
with great justice, but no truth, guess it to be Lady
Roden. No : it is Lady Leven, the mother of Lord
Balgonie. On receiving a message from Lord and
Lady Leven through the Mackays, declaring their
intention of waiting on us, we thought it right to go
to them. I hope we have not done too much, but the
friends and admirers of Charles must be attended to.
They seem very reasonable, good sort of people, very
civil, and full of his praise.* We were shewn at first
into an empty drawing-room, and presently in came

* It seems that Charles Austen, then first lieutenant of the ' Endy-
mion,' had had an opportunity of shewing attention and kindness to
some of Lord Leven' s family.

76 A Memoir of

his lordship, not knowing who we were, to apologise
for the servant's mistake, and to say himself what was
untrue, that Lady Leven was not within. He is a
tall gentlemanlike looking man, with spectacles, and
rather deaf. After sitting with him ten minutes we
walked away; but Lady Leven coming out of the
dining parlour as we passed the door, we were obliged
to attend her back to it, and pay our visit over again.
She is a stout woman, with a very handsome face.
By this means we had the pleasure of hearing Charles's
praises twice over. They think themselves exces-
sively obliged to him, and estimate him so highly as
to wish Lord Balgonie, when he is quite recovered, to
go out to him. There is a pretty little Lady Marianne
of the party, to be shaken hands with, and asked if

she remembered Mr. Austen

' I shall write to Charles by the next packet, unless
you tell me in the meantime of your intending to
do it.

' Believe me, if you chuse,

<Y r afT te Sister.'

Jane did not estimate too highly the ' Cousin George '
mentioned in the foregoing letter; who might easily
have been superior in sense and wit to the rest of the
party. He was the Rev. George Leigh Cooke, long
known and respected at Oxford, where he held im-
portant offices, and had the privilege of helping to
form the minds of men more eminent than himself.
As Tutor in Corpus Christi College, he became in-
structor to some of the most distinguished under-

Jane A listen, yj

graduates of that time : amongst others to Dr. Arnold,
the Rev. John Keble, and Sir John Coleridge. The
latter has mentioned him in terms of affectionate
regard, both in his Memoir of Keble, and in a letter
which appears in Dean Stanley's 'Life of Arnold/
Mr. Cooke was also an impressive preacher of earnest
awakening sermons. I remember to have heard it
observed by some of my undergraduate friends that,
after all, there was more good to be got from George
Cooke's plain sermons than from much of the more
laboured oratory of the University pulpit. He was
frequently Examiner in the schools, and occupied the
chair of the Sedleian Professor of Natural Philosophy,
from 1810 to 1853.

Before the end of 1805, the little family party
removed to Southampton. They resided in a com-
modious old-fashioned house in a corner of Castle
Square.

I have no letters of my aunt, nor any other record
of her, during her four years' residence at Southamp-
ton ; and though I now began to know, and, what
was the same thing, to love her myself, yet my
observations were only those of a young boy, and
were not capable of penetrating her character, or
estimating her powers. I have, however, a lively
recollection of some local circumstances at South-
ampton, and as they refer chiefly to things which
have been long ago swept away, I will record them.
My grandmother's house had a pleasant garden,
bounded on one side by the old city walls ; the top
of this wall was sufficiently wide to afford a pleasant

?8 A Memoir of

walk, with an extensive view, easily accessible to
ladies by steps. This must have been a part of the
identical walls which witnessed the embarkation of
Henry V. before the battle of Agincourt, and the
detection of the conspiracy of Cambridge, Scroop,
and Grey, which Shakspeare has made so picturesque ;
when, according to the chorus in Henry V., the citizens
saw

The well-appointed King at Hampton Pier
Embark his royalty.

Among the records of the town of Southampton,
they have a minute and authentic account, drawn up
at that time, of the encampment of Henry V. near
the town, before his embarkment for France. It is
remarkable that the place where the army was en-
camped, then a low level plain, is now entirely covered
by the sea, and is called Westport* At that time
Castle Square was occupied by a fantastic edifice, too
large for the space in which it stood, though too small
to accord well with its castellated style, erected by the
second Marquis of Lansdowne, half-brother to the
well-known statesman, who succeeded him in the title.
The Marchioness had a light phaeton, drawn by six,
and sometimes by eight little ponies, each pair de-
creasing in size, and becoming lighter in colour,
through all the grades of dark brown, light brown,
bay, and chestnut, as it was placed farther away from
the carriage. The two leading pairs were managed
by two boyish postilions, the two pairs nearest to the

* See Wharton's note to Johnson and Steevens' Shakspeare.

Jane Austen. 79

carriage were driven in hand. It was a delight to me
to look down from the window and see this fairy equi-
page put together; for the premises of this castle were
so contracted that the whole process went on in the
little space that remained of the open square. Like
other fairy works, however, it all proved evanescent
Not only carriage and ponies, but castle itself, soon
vanished away, ' like the baseless fabric of a vision.'
On the death of the Marquis in 1809, the castle was
pulled down. Few probably remember its existence ;
and any one who might visit the place now would
wonder how it ever could have stood there.

In 1809 Mr. Knight was able to offer his mother
the choice of two houses on his property ; one near
his usual residence at Godmersham Park in Kent ;
the other near Chawton House, his occasional resi-
dence in Hampshire. The latter was chosen ; and in
that year the mother and daughters, together with
Miss Lloyd, a near connection who lived with them,
settled themselves at Chawton Cottage.

Chawton may be called the second \ as well as the
last home of Jane Austen ; for during the temporary
residences of the party at Bath and Southampton she
was only a sojourner in a strange land ; but here she
found a real home amongst her own people. It so
happened that during her residence at Chawton cir-
cumstances brought several of her brothers and their
families within easy distance of the house. Chawton
must also be considered the place most closely con-
nected with her career as a writer; for there it was
that, in the maturity of her mind, she either wrote or

So A Memoir of

rearranged, and prepared for publication the books by
which she has become known to the world. This was
the home where, after a few years, while still in the
prime of life, she began to droop and wither away, and
which she left only in the last stage of her illness,
yielding to the persuasion of friends hoping against
hope.

This house stood in the village of Chawton, about
a mile from Alton, on the right hand side, just where
the road to Winchester branches off from that to
Gosport. It was so close to the road that the front
door opened upon it ; while a very narrow enclosure,
paled in on each side, protected the building from
danger of collision with any runaway vehicle. I
believe it had been originally built for an inn, for
which purpose it was certainly well situated. After-
wards it had been occupied by Mr. Knight's steward ;
but by some additions to the house, and some judi-
cious planting and skreening, it was made a pleasant
and commodious abode. Mr. Knight was experienced
and adroit at such arrangements, and this was a
labour of love to him. A good-sized entrance and
two sitting-rooms made the length of the house, all
intended originally to look upon the road, but the
large drawing-room window was blocked up and
turned into a book-case, and another opened at the
side which gave to view only turf and trees, as a high
wooden fence and hornbeam hedge shut out the Win-
chester road, which skirted the whole length of the
little domain. Trees were planted each side to form
a shrubbery walk, carried round the enclosure, which

Jane A usten.

gave a sufficient space for ladies* exercise. There
was a pleasant irregular mixture of hedgerow, and
gravel walk, and orchard, and long grass for mowing,
arising from two or three little enclosures having been
thrown together. The house itself was quite as good
as the generality of parsonage-houses then were, and
much in the same style ; and was capable of receiv-
ing other members of the family as frequent visitors.
It was sufficiently well furnished ; everything inside
and out was kept in good repair, and it was alto-
gether a comfortable and ladylike establishment,
though the means which supported it were not large.
I give this description because some interest is
generally taken in the residence of a popular writer.
Cowper's unattractive house in the street of Olney
has been pointed out to visitors, and has even at-
tained the honour of an engraving in Southey's
edition of his works : but I cannot recommend any
admirer of Jane Austen to undertake a pilgrimage
to this spot. The building indeed still stands, but it
has lost all that gave it its character. After the death
of Mrs. Cassandra Austen, in 1845, it was divided
into tenements for labourers, and the grounds re-
verted to ordinary uses.

iiz&

$2 A Memoir of

CHAPTER V.

Description of Jane Austen 's person, character y and tastes.

As my memoir has now reached the period when I
saw a great deal of my aunt, and was old enough to
understand something of her value, I will here at-
tempt a description of her person, mind, and habits.
In person she was very attractive ; her figure was
rather tall and slender, her step light and firm, and
her whole appearance expressive of health and ani-
mation. In complexion she was a clear brunette
with a rich colour ; she had full round cheeks, with
mouth and nose small and well formed, bright hazel
eyes, and brown hair forming natural curls close
round her face. If not so regularly handsome as her
sister, yet her countenance had a peculiar charm of
its own to the eyes of most beholders. At the time
of which I am now writing, she never was seen, either
morning or evening, without a cap ; I believe that
she and her sister were generally thought to have
taken to the garb of middle age earlier than their
years or their looks required ; and that, though re-
markably neat in their dress as in all their ways, they
were scarcely sufficiently regardful of the fashionable,
or the becoming.

Jane Austen. 83

She was not highly accomplished according to the
present standard. Her sister drew well, and it is
from a drawing of hers that the likeness prefixed to
this volume has been taken. Jane herself was fond
of music, and had a sweet voice, both in singing and
in conversation ; in her youth she had received some
instruction on the pianoforte ; and at Chawton she
practised daily, chiefly before breakfast. I believe
she did so partly that she might not disturb the rest
of the party who were less fond of music. In the
evening she would sometimes sing, to her own ac-
companiment, some simple old songs, the words and
airs of which, now never heard, still linger in my
memory.

She read French with facility, and knew something
of Italian. In those days German was no more
thought of than Hindostanee, as part of a lady's
education. In history she followed the old guides — -
Goldsmith, Hume, and Robertson. Critical enquiry
into the usually received statements of the old his-
torians was scarcely begun. The history of the early
kings of Rome had not yet been dissolved into
legend. Historic characters lay before the reader's
eyes in broad light or shade, not much broken up by
details. The virtues of King Henry VIII. were yet
undiscovered, nor had much light been thrown on the
inconsistencies of Queen Elizabeth ; the one was held
to be an unmitigated tyrant, and an embodied Blue
Beard ; the other a perfect model of wisdom and
policy. Jane, when a girl, had strong political
opinions, especially about the affairs of the sixteenth

84 A Memoir of

and seventeenth centuries. She was a vehement de-
fender of Charles I. and his grandmother Mary; but
I think it was rather from an impulse of feeling than
from any enquiry into the evidences by which they
must be condemned or acquitted. As she grew up,
the politics of the day occupied very little of her
attention, but she probably shared the feeling of
moderate Toryism which prevailed in her family.
She was well acquainted with the old periodicals
from the 'Spectator' downwards. Her knowledge
of Richardson's works was such as no one is likely
again to acquire, now that the multitude and the
merits of our light literature have called off the
attention of readers from that great master. Every
circumstance narrated in Sir Charles Grandison, all
that was ever said or done in the cedar parlour, was
familiar to her ; and the wedding days of Lady L.
and Lady G. were as well remembered as if they had
been living friends. Amongst her favourite writers,
Johnson in prose, Crabbe in verse, and Cowper in
both, stood high. It is well that the native good
taste of herself and of those with whom she lived,
saved her from the snare into which a sister novelist
had fallen, of imitating the grandiloquent style of
Johnson. She thoroughly enjoyed Crabbe; perhaps
on account of a certain resemblance to herself in
minute and highly finished detail ; and would some-
times say, in jest, that, if she ever married at all,
she could fancy being Mrs. Crabbe ; looking on the
author quite as an abstiact idea, and ignorant and
regardless what manner of man he might be. Scott's

Jane Austen. 85

poetry gave her great pleasure ; she did not live to
make much acquaintance with his novels. Only three
of them were published before her death ; but it will
be seen by the following extract from one of her
letters, that she was quite prepared to admit the
merits of ' Waverley'; and it is remarkable that, living,
as she did, far apart from the gossip of the literary
world, she should even then have spoken so confi-
dently of his being the author of it : —

' Walter Scott has no business to write novels ;
especially good ones. It is not fair. He has fame
and profit enough as a poet, and ought not to be
taking the bread out of other people's mouths. I do
not mean to like " Waverley," if I can help it, but I
fear I must. I am quite determined, however, not to

be pleased with Mrs. 's, should I ever meet with

it, which I hope I may not. I think I can be stout
against anything written by her. I have made up my
mind to like no novels really, but Miss Edgeworth's,
E.'s, and my own.'

It was not, however, what she knew, but what she
was, that distinguished her from others. I cannot
better describe the fascination which she exercised
over children than by quoting the words of two of
her nieces. One says : —

* As a very little girl I was always creeping up to
aunt Jane, and following her whenever I could, in the
house and out of it. I might not have remembered
this but for the recollection of my mother's telling me
privately, that I must not be troublesome to my aunt.
Her first charm to children was great sweetness of

S6 A Memoir of

manner. She seemed to love you, and you loved her
in return. This, as well as I can now recollect, was
what I felt in my early days, before I was old enough
to be amused by her cleverness. But soon came
the delight of her playful talk. She could make
everything amusing to a child. Then, as I got older,
when cousins came to share the entertainment, she
would tell us the most delightful stories, chiefly of
Fairyland, and her fairies had all characters of their
own. The tale was invented, I am sure, at the mo-
ment, and was continued for two or three days, if
occasion served.'

Again : ' When staying at Chawton, with two of
her other nieces, we often had amusements in which
my aunt was very helpful. She was the one to whom
we always looked for help. She would furnish us with
what we wanted from her wardrobe ; and she would
be the entertaining visitor in our make-believe house.
She amused us in various ways. Once, I remember,
in giving a conversation as between myself and ray
two cousins, supposing we were all grown up, the day
after a ball/

Very similar is the testimony of another niece : —
' Aunt Jane was the general favourite with children ;
her ways with them being so playful, and her long
circumstantial stories so delightful. These were con-
tinued from time to time, and were begged for on all
possible and impossible occasions ; woven, as she pro-
ceeded, out of nothing but her own happy talent for
invention. Ah ! if but one of them could be reco-
vered ! And again, as I grew older, when the ori-

Jane A listen. 87

ginal seventeen years between our ages seemed to
shrink to seven, or to nothing, it comes back to me
now how strangely I missed her. It had become so
much a habit with me to put by things in my mind
with a reference to her, and to say to myself, I shall
keep this for aunt Jane.'

A nephew of hers used to observe that his visits to
Chawton, after the death of his aunt Jane, were always
a disappointment to him. From old associations he
could not help expecting to be particularly happy in
that house ; and never till he got there could he rea-
lise to himself how all its peculiar charm was gone.
It was not only that the chief light in the house was
quenched, but that the loss of it had cast a shade over
the spirits of the survivors. Enough has been said to
show her love for children, and her wonderful power
of entertaining them ; but her friends of all ages felt
her enlivening influence. Her unusually quick sense
of the ridiculous led her to play with all the common-
places of everyday life, whether as regarded persons
or things ; but she never played with its serious duties
or responsibilities, nor did she ever turn individuals
into ridicule. With all her neighbours in the village
she was on friendly, though not on intimate, terms.
She took a kindly interest in all their proceedings,
and liked to hear about them. They often served for
her amusement ; but it was her own nonsense that
gave zest to the gossip. She was as far as possible
from being censorious or satirical. She never abused
them or quizzed them — that was the word of the day ;
an ugly word, now obsolete ; and the ugly practice

88 A Memoir of

which it expressed is much less prevalent now than it
was then. The laugh which she occasionally raised
was by imagining for her neighbours, as she was
equally ready to imagine for her friends or herself,
impossible contingencies, or by relating in prose or
verse some trifling anecdote coloured to her own
fancy, or in writing a fictitious history of what they
were supposed to have said or done, which could
deceive nobody.

The following specimens may be given of the live-
liness of mind which imparted an agreeable flavour
both to her correspondence and her conversation : —

On reading in the newspapers the marriage of
Mr. Gell to Miss Gill, of Eastbourne.

At Eastbourne Mr. Gell, From being perfectly well,
Became dreadfully ill, For love of Miss Gill.
So he said, with some sighs, I'm the slave of your its ;
Oh, restore, if you please, By accepting my ees.

On the marriage of a middle-aged Flirt with a
Mr. Wake, whom, it was supposed, she would
scarcely have accepted in her youth.

Maria, good-humoured, and handsome, and tall,
For a husband was at her last stake ;

And having in vain danced at many a ball,
Is now happy iojtunp at a Wake,

* We were all at the play last night to see Miss
O'Neil in Isabella. I do not think she was quite
equal to my expectation. I fancy I want something
more than can be. Acting seldom satisfies me. I

Jane Auste?t. 89

took two pockethandkerchiefs, but had very little
occasion for either. She is an elegant creature, how-
ever, and hugs Mr. Young delightfully.'

' So, Miss B. is actually married, but I have never
seen it in the papers ; and one may as well be single
if the wedding is not to be in print/

Once, too, she took it into her head to write the
following mock panegyric on a young friend, who
really was clever and handsome : —

In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna :

And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast savannah.

Ontario's lake may fitly speak

Her fancy's ample bound :
Its circuit may, on strict survey

Five hundred miles be found.

3-

Her wit descends on foes and friends

Like famed Niagara's Fall ;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,

And listen, one and all.

4-
Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,

Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade

To all that in it roves.

90 A Memoir of

5-

If thus her mind to be defined

America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land

In similes it costs —

Oh how can I her person try-
To image and portray ?

How paint the face, the form how trace
In which those virtues lay ?

7-

Another world must be unfurled,

Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round

Her charms of flesh and bone.

I believe that all this nonsense was nearly extem-
pore, and that the fancy of drawing the images from
America arose at the moment from the obvious rhyme
which presented itself in the first stanza.

The following extracts are from letters addressed
to a niece who was at that time amusing herself by
attempting a novel, probably never finished, certainly
never published, and of which I know nothing but
what these extracts tell. They show the good-natured
sympathy and encouragement which the aunt, then
herself occupied in writing l Emma/ could give to the
less matured powers of the niece. They bring out
incidentally some of her opinions concerning compo-
sitions of that kind : —

Jane A us ten. 9 i

Extracts.

* Chawton, Aug. io, 1814.

' Your aunt C. does not like desultory novels, and
is rather fearful that yours will be too much so ; that
there will be too frequent a change from one set of
people to another, and that circumstances will be
sometimes introduced, of apparent consequence, which
will lead to nothing. It will not be so great an objec-
tion to me. I allow much more latitude than she
does, and think nature and spirit cover many sins of
a wandering story. And people in general do not
care much about it, for your comfort. . . .'

* Sept 9.

'You are now collecting your people delightfully,
getting them exactly into such a spot as is the delight
of my life. Three or four families in a country vil-
lage is the very thing to work on ; and I hope you
will write a great deal more, and make full use of
them while they are so very favourably arranged/

« Sept. 28.
' Devereux Forrester being ruined by his vanity is
very good : but I wish you would not let him plunge
into a " vortex of dissipation." I do not object to the
thing, but I cannot bear the expression : it is such
thorough novel slang ; and so old that I dare say
Adam met with it in the first novel that he opened/

92 A Memoir of

1 Hans Place (Nov. 1814).

' I have been very far from finding your book an
evil, I assure you. I read it immediately, and with
great pleasure. Indeed, I do think you get on very
fast. I wish other people of my acquaintance could
compose as rapidly. Julian's history was quite a
surprise to me. You had not very long known it
yourself, I suspect ; but I have no objection to make
to the circumstance ; it is very well told, and his
having been in love with the aunt gives Cecilia an
additional interest with him. I like the idea ; a very
proper compliment to an aunt ! I rather imagine,
indeed, that nieces are seldom chosen but in compli-
ment to some aunt or other. I dare say your husband
was in love with me once, and would never have
thought of you if he had not supposed me dead of a
scarlet fever/

Jane Austen was successful in everything that she
attempted with her fingers. None of us could throw
spilikins in so perfect a circle, or take them off with
so steady a hand. Her performances with cup and
ball were marvellous. The one used at Chawton was
an easy one, and she has been known to catch it on
the point above an hundred times in succession, till her
hand was weary. She sometimes found a resource in
that simple game, when unable, from weakness in her
eyes, to read or write long together. A specimen of her
clear strong handwriting is here given. Happy would
the compositors for the press be if they had always so
legible a manuscript to work from. But the writing

Jane Austen. 93

was not the only part of her letters which showed
superior handiwork. In those days there was an art
in folding and sealing. No adhesive envelopes made
all easy. Some people's letters always looked loose
and untidy ; but her paper was sure to take the right
folds, and her sealing-wax to drop into the right place.
Her needlework both plain and ornamental was ex-
cellent, and might almost have put a sewing machine
to shame. She was considered especially great in
satin stitch. She spent much time in these occupations,
and some of her merriest talk was over clothes which
she and her companions were making, sometimes for
themselves, and sometimes for the poor. There still
remains a curious specimen of her needlework made
for a sister-in-law, my mother. In a very small bag
is deposited a little rolled up housewife, furnished with
minikin needles and fine thread. In the housewife is
a tiny pocket, and in the pocket is enclosed a slip of
paper, on which, written as with a crow quill, are these
lines : —

This little bag, I hope, will prove

To be not vainly made ;
For should you thread and needles want,

It will afford you aid.

And, as we are about to part,

'T will serve another end :
For, when you look upon this bag,

You'll recollect your friend.

It is the kind of article that some benevolent fairy
might be supposed to give as a reward to a dili-

94 A Memoir of

gent little girl. The whole is of flowered silk, and
having been never used and carefully preserved, it is
as fresh and bright as when it was first made seventy-
years ago ; and shows that the same hand which
painted so exquisitely with the pen could work as
delicately with the needle.

I have collected some of the bright qualities which
shone, as it were, on the surface of Jane Austen's
character, and attracted most notice ; but underneath
them there lay the strong foundations of sound sense
and judgment, rectitude of principle, and delicacy of
feeling, qualifying her equally to advise, assist, or
amuse. She was, in fact, as ready to comfort the
unhappy, or to nurse the sick, as she was to laugh
and jest with the light-hearted. Two of her nieces
were grown up, and one of them was married, before
she was taken away from them. As their minds be-
came more matured, they were admitted into closer
intimacy with her, and learned more of her graver
thoughts ; they know what a sympathising friend and
judicious adviser they found her to be in many little
difficulties and doubts of early womanhood.

I do not venture to speak of her religious prin-
ciples : that is a subject on which she herself was
more inclined to think and act than to talk, and I shall
imitate her reserve ; satisfied to have shown how much
of Christian love and humility abounded in her heart,
without presuming to lay bare the roots whence those
graces grew. Some little insight, however, into these
deeper recesses of the heart must be given, when we
come to speak of her death.

Jane Austen. 95

CHAPTER VI.

Habits of Composition resumed after a long interval — First publication —
The interest taken by the Author in the success of her Works,

IT may seem extraordinary that Jane Austen should
have written so little during the years that elapsed
between leaving Steventon and settling at Chawton ;
especially when this cessation from work is contrasted
with her literary activity both before and after that
period. It might rather have been expected that fresh
scenes and new acquaintance would have called forth
her powers ; while the quiet life which the family led
both at Bath and Southampton must have afforded
abundant leisure for composition ; but so it was that
nothing which I know of, certainly nothing which the
public have seen, was completed in either of those
places. I can only state the fact, without assigning any
cause for it ; but as soon as she was fixed in her second
home, she resumed the habits of composition which
had been formed in her first, and continued them to
the end of her life. The first year of her residence
at Chawton seems to have been devoted to revising
and preparing for the press ' Sense and Sensibility/
and 'Pride and Prejudice'; but between February
181 1 and August 1816, she began and completed
' Mansfield Park/ ' Emma/ and * Persuasion/ so that
the last five years of her life produced the same

96 A Memoir of

number of novels with those which had been written
in her early youth. How she was able to effect all
this is surprising, for she had no separate study to
retire to, and most of the work must have been done
in the general sitting-room, subject to all kinds of
casual interruptions. She was careful that her occu-
pation should not be suspected by servants, or visitors,
or any persons beyond her own family party. She
wrote upon small sheets of paper which could easily
be put away, or covered with a piece of blotting
paper. There was, between the front door and the
offices, a swing door which creaked when it was
opened ; but she objected to having this little incon-
venience remedied, because it gave her notice when
anyone was coming. She was not, however, troubled
with companions like her own Mrs. Allen in ' North-
anger Abbey/ whose ' vacancy of mind and incapacity
for thinking were such that, as she never talked a
great deal, so she could never be entirely silent ; and
therefore, while she sat at work, if she lost her needle,
or broke her thread, or saw a speck of dirt on her
gown, she must observe it, whether there were any
one at leisure to answer her or not.' In that well
occupied female party there must have been many
precious hours of silence during which the pen was
busy at the little mahogany writing-desk,* while
Fanny Price, or Emma Woodhouse, or Anne Elliott
was growing into beauty and interest. I have no
doubt that I, and my sisters and cousins, in our visits

* This mahogany desk, which has done good service to the public, is
now in the possession of my sister, Miss Austen.

Jane Austen, 97

to Chawton, frequently disturbed this mystic process,
without having any idea of the mischief that we were
doing ; certainly we never should have guessed it by
any signs of impatience or irritability in the writer.

As so much had been previously prepared, when
once she began to publish, her works came out in
quick succession. ' Sense and Sensibility * w T as pub-
lished in 181 1, ' Pride and Prejudice ' at the beginning
of 18 1 3, 'Mansfield Park' in 18 14, 'Emma' early in
18 16 ; ' Northanger Abbey ' and ' Persuasion ' did not
appear till, after her death, in 1 8 1 8. It will be shown
farther on why ' Northanger Abbey/ though amongst
the first written, was one of the last published. Her
first three novels were published by Egerton, her last
three by Murray. The profits of the four which had
been printed before her death had not at that time
amounted to seven hundred pounds.

I have no record of the publication of ' Sense and
Sensibility/ nor of the author's feelings at this her first
appearance before the public ; but the following ex-
tracts from three letters to her sister give a lively
picture of the interest with which she watched the
reception of ' Pride and Prejudice/ and show the
carefulness with which she corrected her compositions,
and rejected much that had been written : —

'Chawton, Friday, January 29 (181 3).

( I hope you received my little parcel by J. Bond on
Wednesday evening, my dear Cassandra, and that you
will be ready to hear from me again on Sunday, for I
feel that I must write to you to-day. I want to tell

H

gS A Memoir of

you that I have got my own darling child from
London. On Wednesday I received one copy sent
down by Falkener, with three lines from Henry to say
that he had given another to Charles and sent a third
by the coach to Godmersham. . . . The advertise-
ment is in our paper to-day for the first time : iSs.
He shall ask \L is. for my two next, and i/. Ss. for
my stupidest of all. Miss B. dined w T ith us on the
very day of the book's coming, and in the evening we
fairly set at it, and read half the first vol. to her, pre-
facing that, having intelligence from Henry that such
a work would soon appear, we had desired him to
send it whenever it came out, and I believe it passed
with her unsuspected. She was amused, poor soul !
That she could not help, you know, with two such
people to lead the way, but she really does seem to
admire Elizabeth. I must confess that I think her as
delightful a creature as ever appeared in print, and
how I shall be able to tolerate those who do not like
her at least I do not know. There are a few typical
errors ; and a " said he," or a " said she," would some-
times make the dialogue more immediately clear ; but
" I do not write for such dull elves " as have not a
great deal of ingenuity themselves. The second vo-
lume is shorter than I could wish, but the difference
is not so much in reality as in look, there being a larger
proportion of narrative in that part. I have lop't and
crop't so successfully, however, that I imagine it
must be rather shorter than " Sense and Sensibility "
altogether. Now I will try and write of something
else/

Jane Austen. 99

* Chawton, Thursday, February 4(1813).

'My dear Cassandra, — Your letter was truly
welcome, and I am much obliged to you for all your
praise ; it came at a right time, for I had had some fits of
disgust. Our second evening's reading to Miss B. had
not pleased me so well, but I believe something must
be attributed to my mother's too rapid way of getting
on : though she perfectly understands the characters
herself, she cannot speak as they ought. Upon the
whole, however, I am quite vain enough and well satis-
fied enough. The work is rather too light, and bright,
and sparkling ; it wants shade ; it wants to be stretched
out here and there with a long chapter of sense, if it
could be had ; if not, of solemn specious nonsense,
about something unconnected with the story; an
essay on writing, a critique on Walter Scott, or the
history of Buonaparte, or something that would form
a contrast, and bring the reader with increased delight
to the playfulness and epigrammatism of the general
style. . . . The greatest blunder in the printing that I
have met with is in page 220, v. 3, where two speeches
are made into one. There might as well be no sup-
pers at Longbourn ; but I suppose it was the remains
of Mrs. Bennett's old Meryton habits.'

The following letter seems to have been written
soon after the last two : in February 1813 : —

' This will be a quick return for yours, my dear
Cassandra ; I doubt its having much else to recom-
mend it ; but there is no saying ; it may turn out to
be a very long and delightful letter. I am exceedingly

ioo A Memoir of

pleased that you can say what you do, after having
gone through the whole work, and Fanny's praise is
very gratifying. My hopes were tolerably strong of
her, but nothing like a certainty. Her liking Darcy
and Elizabeth is enough. She might hate all the
others, if she would. I have her opinion under her
own hand this morning, but your transcript of it,
which I read first, was not, and is not, the less accept-
able. To me it is of course all praise, but the more exact

truth which she sends you is good enough Our

party on Wednesday was not unagreeable, though we
wanted a master of the house less anxious and fidgety,

and more conversible. Upon Mrs. 's mentioning

that she had sent the rejected addresses to Mrs. H., I
began talking to her a little about them, and expressed
my hope of their having amused her. Her answer
was, " Oh dear yes, very much, very droll indeed, the
opening of the house, and the striking up of the
fiddles ! " What she meant, poor woman, who shall
say ? I sought no farther. As soon as a whist party
was formed, and a round table threatened, I made
my mother an excuse and came away, leaving just as
many for their round table as there were at Mrs.
Grant's.* I wish they might be as agreeable a set.
My mother is very well, and finds great amusement
in glove-knitting, and at present wants no other work.
We quite run over with books. She has got Sir
John Carr's " Travels in Spain," and I am reading a
Society octavo, an " Essay on the Military Police and
Institutions of the British Empire," by Capt. Pasley of

* At this time, February 1813, 'Mansfield Park' was nearly finished.

Jane Austen. ioi

the Engineers, a book which I protested against at
first, but which upon trial I find delightfully written
and highly entertaining. I am as much in love with
the author as I ever was with Clarkson or Buchanan,
or even the two Mr. Smiths of the city. The first
soldier I ever sighed for; but he does write with ex-
traordinary force and spirit. Yesterday, moreover,
brought us " Mrs. Grant's Letters," with Mr. White's
compliments ; but I have disposed of them, compli-
ments and all, to Miss P., and amongst so many
readers or retainers of books as we have in Chawton,
I dare say there will be no difficulty in getting rid
of them for another fortnight, if necessary. I have
disposed of Mrs. Grant for the second fortnight to

Mrs. . It can make no difference to her which of

the twenty-six fortnights in the year the 3 vols, lie on
her table. I have been applied to for information as
to the oath taken in former times of Bell, Book, and
Candle, but have none to give. Perhaps you may be
able to learn something of its origin where you now
are. Ladies who read those enormous great stupid
thick quarto volumes which one always sees in the
breakfast parlour there must be acquainted with every-
thing in the world. I detest a quarto. Capt. Pasley's
book is too good for their society. They will not
understand a man who condenses his thoughts into
an octavo. I have learned from Sir J. Carr that there
is no Government House at Gibraltar. I must alter
it to the Commissioner's/

The following letter belongs to the same year, but

102 A Memoir of

treats of a different subject. It describes a journey
from Chawton to London, in her brother's curricle,
and shows how much could be seen and enjoyed in
course of a long summer's day by leisurely travelling
amongst scenery which the traveller in an express
train now rushes through in little more than an hour,
but scarcely sees at all : —

' Sloane Street, Thursday, May 20 (1813).

'My dear Cassandra,
' Before I say anything else, I claim a paper full of
halfpence on the drawing-room mantel-piece ; I put
them there myself, and forgot to bring them with me.
I cannot say that I have yet been in any distress for
money, but I chuse to have my due, as well as the
Devil. How lucky we were in our weather yesterday!
This wet morning makes one more sensible of it. We
had no rain of any consequence. The head of the
curricle was put half up three or four times, but our
share of the showers was very trifling, though they
seemed to be heavy all round us, when we were on
the Hog s-back, and I fancied it might then be raining
so hard at Chawton as to make you feel for us much
more than we deserved. Three hours and a quarter
took us to Guildford, where we staid barely two hours,
and had only just time enough for all we had to do
there ; that is, eating a long and comfortable breakfast,
watching the carriages, paying Mr. Harrington, and
taking a little stroll afterwards. From some views
which that stroll gave us, I think most highly of the
situation of Guildford. We wanted all our brothers

Jane Austen. 103

and sisters to be standing with us in the bowling-
green, and looking towards Horsham. I was very
lucky in my gloves — got them at the first shop I
went to, though I went into it rather because it was
near than because it looked at all like a glove shop,
and gave only four shillings for them ; after which
everybody at Chawton will be hoping and predicting
that they cannot be good for anything, and their
worth certainly remains to be proved ; but I think they
look very well. We left Guildford at twenty minutes
before twelve (I hope somebody cares for these
minutiae), and were at Esher in about two hours more.
I was very much pleased with the country in general.
Between Guildford and Ripley I thought it particularly
pretty, also about Painshill ; and from a Mr. Spicer's
grounds at Esher, which we walked into before dinner,
the views were beautiful. I cannot say what we did
not see, but I should think there could not be a
wood, or a meadow, or palace, or remarkable spot in
England that was not spread out before us on one
side or other. Claremont is going to be sold : a Mr.
Ellis has it now. It is a house that seems never to
have prospered. After dinner we walked forward
to be overtaken at the coachman's time, and before
he did overtake us we were very near Kingston. I
fancy it was about half-past six when we reached this
house — a twelve hours' business, and the horses did not
appear more than reasonably tired. I was very tired
too, and glad to get to bed early, but am quite well
to-day. I am very snug in the front drawing-room
all to myself, and would not say "thank you" for

104 ^ Memoir of

any company but you. The quietness of it does me
good. I have contrived to pay my two visits, though
the weather made me a great while about it, and left
me only a few minutes to sit with Charlotte Craven *
She looks very well, and her hair is done up with
an elegance to do credit to any education. Her
manners are as unaffected and pleasing as ever. She
had heard from her mother to-day. Mrs. Craven
spends another fortnight at Chilton. I saw nobody
but Charlotte, which pleased me best. I was shewn
upstairs into a drawing-room, where she came to me,
and the appearance of the room, so totally unschool-
like, amused me very much ; it was full of modern
elegancies.

< Yours very affec 11 *-, ' J. A.'

The next letter, written in the following year,
contains an account of another journey to London,
with her brother Henry, and reading with him the
manuscript of ' Mansfield Park ' : —

« Henrietta Street, Wednesday, March 2 (18 14).

< My dear Cassandra,
'You were wrong in thinking of us at Guildford
last night: we were at Cobham. On reaching G.
we found that John and the horses were gone on.
We therefore did no more than we had done at
Farnham — sit in the carriage while fresh horses were
put in, and proceeded directly to Cobham, which we

* The present Lady Pollen, of Redenham, near Andover, then at a
school in London.

Jane Austen. 105

reached by seven, and about eight were sitting down
to a very nice roast fowl, &c. We had altogether a very
good journey, and everything at Cobham was comfort-
able. I could not pay Mr. Harrington ! That was the
only alas ! of the business. I shall therefore return
his bill, and my mother's 2/., that you may try your
luck. We did not begin reading till Bentley Green.
Henry's approbation is hitherto even equal to my
wishes. He says it is different from the other two,
but does not appear to think it at all inferior. He
has only married Mrs. R. I am afraid he has gone
through the most entertaining part. He took to
Lady B. and Mrs. N. most kindly, and gives great
praise to the drawing of the characters. He under-
stands them all, likes Fanny, and, I think, foresees how
it will all be. I finished the " Heroine " last night, and
was very much amused by it. I wonder James did
not like it better. It diverted me exceedingly. We
went to bed at ten. I was very tired, but slept to a
miracle, and am lovely to-day, and at present Henry
seems to have no complaint. We left Cobham at
half-past eight, stopped to bait and breakfast at King-
ston, and were in this house considerably before two.
Nice smiling Mr. Barlowe met us at the door and, in
reply to enquiries after news, said that peace was
generally expected. I have taken possession of my
bedroom, unpacked my bandbox, sent Miss P/s two
letters to the twopenny post, been visited by M d * B.,
and am now writing by myself at the new table in
the front room. It is snowing. We had some snow-
storms yesterday, and a smart frost at night, which

io6 A Memoir of

gave us a hard road from Cobham to Kingston ; but
as it was then getting dirty and heavy, Henry had a
pair of leaders put on to the bottom of Sloane St.
His own horses, therefore, cannot have had hard work.
I watched for veils as we drove through the streets,
and had the pleasure of seeing several upon vulgar
heads. And now, how do you all do ? — you in par-
ticular, after the worry of yesterday and the day
before. I hope Martha had a pleasant visit again,
and that you and my mother could eat your beef-
pudding. Depend upon my thinking of the chimney-
sweeper as soon as I wake to-morrow. Places are
secured at Drury Lane for Saturday, but so great is
the rage for seeing Kean that only a third and fourth
row could be got ; as it is in a front box, however, I
hope we shall do pretty well— Shylock, a good play
for Fanny — she cannot be much affected, I think
Mrs. Perigord has just been here. She tells me that
we owe her master for the silk-dyeing. My poor
old muslin has never been dyed yet. It has been
promised to be done several times. What wicked
people dyers are. They begin with dipping their
own souls in scarlet sin. It is evening. We have
drank tea, and I have torn through the third vol. of
the " Heroine." I do not think it falls off. It is a
delightful burlesque, particularly on the Radcliffe
style. Henry is going on with " Mansfield Park." He
admires H. Crawford : I mean properly, as a clever,
pleasant man. I tell you all the good I can, as I
know how much you will enjoy it. We hear that
Mr. Kean is more admired than ever. There are no

Jane Austen. 107

good places to be got in Drury Lane for the next
fortnight, but Henry means to secure some for Satur-
day fortnight, when you are reckoned upon. Give
my love to little Cass. I hope she found my bed
comfortable last night. I have seen nobody in Lon-
don yet with such a long chin as Dr. Syntax, nor
anybody quite so large as Gogmagolicus.

* Yours aff *. ,

'J. Austen/

io8 A Memoir of

CHAPTER VII.

Seclusion from the literary world — Notice from the Prince Regent —
Correspondence with Mr. Clarke — Suggestions to alter her style of
writing.

Jane AUSTEN lived in entire seclusion from the
literary world : neither by correspondence, nor by
personal intercourse was she known to any contem-
porary authors. It is probable that she never was in
company with any person whose talents or whose
celebrity equalled her own ; so that her powers never
could have been sharpened by collision with superior
intellects, nor her imagination aided by their casual
suggestions. Whatever she produced was a genuine
home-made article. Even during the last two or
three years of her life, when her works were rising in
the estimation of the public, they did not enlarge
the circle of her acquaintance. Few of her readers
knew even her name, and none knew more of her
than her name. I doubt whether it would be pos-
sible to mention any other author of note, whose
personal obscurity was so complete. I can think of
none like her, but of many to contrast with her in
that respect Fanny Burney, afterwards Madame
D'Arblay, was at an early age petted by Dr. Johnson,

Jane Austen. 109

and introduced to the wits and scholars of the day
at the tables of Mrs. Thrale and Sir Joshua Rey-
nolds. Anna Seward, in her self-constituted shrine
at Lichfield, would have been miserable, had she not
trusted that the eyes. of all lovers of poetry were
devoutly fixed on her. Joanna Baillie and Maria
Edgeworth were indeed far from courting publicity ;
they loved the privacy of their own families, one with
her brother and sister in their Hampstead villa, the
other in her more distant retreat in Ireland ; but
fame pursued them, and they were the favourite cor-
respondents of Sir Walter Scott. Crabbe, who was
usually buried in a country parish, yet sometimes
visited London, and dined at Holland House, and was
received as a fellow-poet by Campbell, Moore, and
Rogers; and on one memorable occasion he was
Scott's guest at Edinburgh, and gazed with wonder-
ing eyes on the incongruous pageantry with which
George IV. was entertained in that city. Even those
great writers who hid themselves amongst lakes and
mountains associated with each other; and though
little seen by the world were so much in its thoughts
that a new term, ' Lakers,' was coined to designate
them. The chief part of Charlotte Bronte's life was
spent in a wild solitude compared with which Ste-
venton and Chawton might be considered to be in
the gay world ; and yet she attained to personal
distinction which never fell to Jane's lot. When she
visited her kind publisher in London, literary men
and women were invited purposely to meet her :
Thackeray bestowed upon her the honour of his

no A Memoir of

notice ; and once in Willis's Rooms,* she had to
walk shy and trembling through an avenue of lords
and ladies, drawn up for the purpose of gazing at
the author of * Jane Eyre.' Miss Mitford, too, lived
quietly in ' Our Village/ devoting her time and talents
to the benefit of a father scarcely worth of her ; but
she did not live there unknown. Her tragedies gave
her a name in London. She numbered Milman and
Talfourd amongst her correspondents ; and her works
were a passport to the society of many who would
not otherwise have sought her. Hundreds admired
Miss Mitford on account of her writings for one who
ever connected the idea of Miss Austen with the
press. A few years ago, a gentleman visiting Win-
chester Cathedral desired to be shown Miss Austen's
grave. The verger, as he pointed it out, asked,
' Pray, sir, can you tell me whether there was any-
thing particular about that lady; so many people
want to know where she was buried ? ' During her
life the ignorance of the verger was shared by most
people ; few knew that ' there was anything par-
ticular about that lady.'

It was not till towards the close of her life, when
the last of the works that she saw published was in
the press, that she received the only mark of dis-
tinction ever bestowed upon her; and that was re-
markable for the high quarter whence it emanated
rather than for any actual increase of fame that it
conferred. It happened thus. In the autumn of
1815 she nursed her brother Henry through a dan-
* See Mrs. Gaskell's 'Life of Miss Bronte,* voL ii. p. 215.

Jane Austen. \\\

gerous fever and slow convalescence at his house in
Hans Place. He was attended by one of the Prince
Regent's physicians. All attempts to keep her name
secret had at this time ceased, and though it had
never appeared on a title-page, all who cared to
know might easily learn it : and the friendly phy-
sician was aware that his patient's nurse was the
author of 'Pride and Prejudice. , Accordingly he
informed her one day that the Prince was a great
admirer of her novels ; that he read them often, and
kept a set in every one of his residences ; that he
himself therefore had thought it right to inform his
Royal Highness that Miss Austen was staying in
London, and that the Prince had desired Mr. Clarke,
the librarian of Carlton House, to wait upon her.
The next day Mr. Clarke made his appearance, and
invited her to Carlton House, saying that he had
the Prince's instructions to show her the library and
other apartments, and to pay her every possible atten-
tion. The invitation was of course accepted, and
during the visit to Carlton House Mr. Clarke de-
clared himself commissioned to say that if Miss
Austen had any other novel forthcoming she was at
liberty to dedicate it to the Prince. Accordingly such
a dedication was immediately prefixed to 'Emma/
which was at that time in the press.

Mr. Clarke was the brother of Dr. Clarke, the
traveller and mineralogist, whose life has been written
by Bishop Otter. Jane found in him not only a very
courteous gentleman, but also a warm admirer of her
talents ; though it will be seen by his letters that he

112 A Memoir of

did not clearly apprehend the limits of her powers,
or the proper field for their exercise. The following
correspondence took place between them.

Feeling some apprehension lest she should make a
mistake in acting on the verbal permission which she
had received from the Prince, Jane addressed the
following letter to Mr. Clarke : —

'Nov. 15, 1815.

'Sir, — I must take the liberty of asking you a
question. Among the many flattering attentions
which I received from you at Carlton House on
Monday last was the information of my being at
liberty to dedicate any future work to His Royal
Highness the Prince Regent, without the necessity
of any solicitation on my part. Such, at least, I
believed to be your words ; but as I am very anxious
to be quite certain of what was intended, I entreat
you to have the goodness to inform me how such a
permission is to be understood, and whether it is
incumbent on me to show my sense of the honour by
inscribing the work now in the press to His Royal
Highness ; I should be equally concerned to appear
either presumptuous or ungrateful.'

The following gracious answer was returned by
Mr. Clarke, together with a suggestion which must
have been received with some surprise : —

'Carlton House, Nov. 16, 1815.

s DEAR Madam, — It is certainly not incumbent on
you to dedicate your work now in the press to His

Jane Austen. 113

Royal Highness ; but if you wish to do the Regent
that honour either now or at any future period I am
happy to send you that permission, which need not
require any more trouble or solicitation on your part.

i Your late works, Madam, and in particular " Mans-
field Park," reflect the highest honour on your genius
and your principles. In every new work your mind
seems to increase its energy and power of discrimi-
nation. The Regent has read and admired all your
publications.

'Accept my best thanks for the pleasure your
volumes have given me. In the perusal of them I
felt a great inclination to write and say so. And I
also, dear Madam, wished to be allowed to ask you
to delineate in some future work the habits of life,
and character, and enthusiasm of a clergyman, who
should pass his time between the metropolis and the
country, who should be something like Beattie's
Minstrel —

Silent when glad, affectionate tho' shy,

And in his looks was most demurely sad ;
And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why.

Neither Goldsmith, nor La Fontaine in his "Tableau
de Famille," have in my mind quite delineated an
English clergyman, at least of the present day, fond
of and entirely engaged in literature, no man's enemy
but his own. Pray, dear Madam, think of these
things.

* Believe me at all times with sincerity and
respect, your faithful and obliged servant,
' J. S. Clarke, Librarian/
I

H4 A Memoir of

The following letter, written in reply, will show
how unequal the author of 'Pride and Prejudice'
felt herself to delineating an enthusiastic clergyman
of the present day, who should resemble Beattie's
Minstrel : —

1 Dec. ii.

' Dear Sir, — My " Emma " is now so near pub-
lication that I feel it right to assure you of my not
having forgotten your kind recommendation of an
early copy for Carlton House, and that I have Mr.
Murray's promise of its being sent to His Royal
Highness, under cover to you, three days previous to
the work being really out. I must make use of this
opportunity to thank you, dear Sir, for the very high
praise you bestow on my other novels. I am too
vain to wish to convince you that you have praised
them beyond their merits. My greatest anxiety at
present is that this fourth work should not disgrace
what was good in the others. But on this point I
will do myself the justice to declare that, whatever
may be my wishes for its success, I am strongly
haunted with the idea that to those readers who have
preferred "Pride and Prejudice" it will appear in-
ferior in wit, and to those who have preferred " Mans-
field Park " inferior in good sense. Such as it is,
however, I hope you will do me the favour of accept-
ing a copy. Mr. Murray will have directions for
sending one. I am quite honoured by your thinking
me capable of drawing such a clergyman as you gave
the sketch of in your note of Nov. i6th. But I

Jane Austen. 115

assure you I am not The comic part of the cha-
racter I might be equal to, but not the good, the
enthusiastic, the literary. Such a man's conversation
must at times be on subjects of science and philoso-
phy, of which I know nothing ; or at least be occa-
sionally abundant in quotations and allusions which
a woman who, like me, knows only her own mother
tongue, and has read little in that, would be totally
without the power of giving. A classical education,
or at any rate a very extensive acquaintance with
English literature, ancient and modern, appears to
me quite indispensable for the person who would do
any justice to your clergyman ; and I think I may
boast myself to be, with all possible vanity, the most
unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to
be an authoress.

' Believe me, dear Sir,
' Your obliged and faithful hum bl Ser*.

'Jane Austen.'*

Mr. Clarke, however, was not to be discouraged
from proposing another subject He had recently
been appointed chaplain and private English secre-
tary to Prince Leopold, who was then about to
be united to the Princess Charlotte ; and when he
again wrote to express the gracious thanks of the
Prince Regent for the copy of ' Emma ' which had
been presented, he suggests that ' an historical ro-

* It was her pleasure to boast of greater ignorance than she had any-
just claim to. She knew more than her mother tongue, for she knew a
good deal of French and a little of Italian.

I 2

Ii6 A Memoir of

mance illustrative of the august House of Cobourg
would just now be very interesting/ and might very
properly be dedicated to Prince Leopold. This was
much as if Sir William Ross had been set to paint
a great battle-piece ; and it is amusing to see with
what grave civility she declined a proposal which
must have struck her as ludicrous, in the following
letter :—

' My dear Sir, — I am honoured by the Prince's
thanks and very much obliged to yourself for the
kind manner in which you mention the work. I
have also to acknowledge a former letter forwarded
to me from Hans Place. I assure you I felt very
grateful for the friendly tenor of it, and hope my
silence will have been considered, as it was truly
meant, to proceed only from an unwillingness to tax
your time with idle thanks. Under every interesting
circumstance which your own talents and literary
labours have placed you in, or the favour of the
Regent bestowed, you have my best wishes. Your
recent appointments I hope are a step to something
still better. In my opinion, the service of a court
can hardly be too well paid, for immense must be the
sacrifice of time and feeling required by it

' You are very kind in your hints as to the sort of
composition which might recommend me at present,
and I am fully sensible that an historical romance,
founded on the House of Saxe Cobourg, might be
much more to the purpose of profit or popularity
than such pictures of domestic life in country villages

Jane Atisten. 117

as I deal in. But I could no more write a romance
than an epic poem. I could not sit seriously down
to write a serious romance under any other motive
than to save my life ; and if it were indispensable for
me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at
myself or at other people, I am sure I should be
hung before I had finished the first chapter. No,
I must keep to my own style and go on in my own
way ; and though I may never succeed again in that,
I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other.
' I remain, my dear Sir,
'Your very much obliged, and sincere friend,

1 J. Austen.

4 Chawton, near Alton, April 1, 181 6.'

Mr. Clarke should have recollected the warning of
the wise man, 'Force not the course of the river/
If you divert it from the channel in which nature
taught it to flow, and force it into one arbitrarily cut
by yourself, you will lose its grace and beauty.

But when his free course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with the enamelled stones,

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage :

And so by many winding nooks he strays

With willing sport.

All writers of fiction, who have genius strong
enough to work out a course of their own, resist every
attempt to interfere with its direction. No two
writers could be more unlike each other than Jane
Austen and Charlotte Bronte ; so much so that the
latter was unable to understand why the former was

1 1 8 A Memoir of

admired, and confessed that she herself ' should hardly
like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their
elegant but confined houses ; ' but each writer equally
resisted interference with her own natural style of
composition. Miss Bronte, in reply to a friendly
critic, who had warned her against being too melo-
dramatic, and had ventured to propose Miss Austen's
works to her as a study, writes thus : —

1 Whenever I do write another book, I think I will
have nothing of what you call " melodrama." I think
so, but I am not sure. I think, too, I will endeavour
to follow the counsel which shines out of Miss Aus-
ten's " mild eyes," to finish more, and be more sub-
dued ; but neither am I sure of that. When authors
write best, or, at least, when they write most fluently,
an influence seems to waken in them which becomes
their master — which will have its way — putting out
of view all behests but its own, dictating certain
words, and insisting on their being used, whether
vehement or measured in their nature, new moulding
characters, giving unthought of turns to incidents,
rejecting carefully elaborated old ideas, and suddenly
creating and adopting new ones. Is it not so ? And
should we try to counteract this influence ? Can we
indeed counteract it ?' *

The playful raillery with which the one parries an
attack on her liberty, and the vehement eloquence of
the other in pleading the same cause and maintaining
the independence of genius, are very characteristic of
the minds of the respective writers.

* Mrs. Gaskell's * Life of Miss Bronte,' vol. ii. p. 53.

Jane Austen. 119

The suggestions which Jane received as to the sort
of story that she ought to write were, however, an
amusement to her, though they were not likely to
prove useful ; and she has left amongst her papers
one entitled, ' Plan of a novel according to hints from
various quarters/ The names of some of those ad-
visers are written on the margin of the manuscript
opposite to their respective suggestions.

c Heroine to be the daughter of a clergyman, who
after having lived much in the world had retired from
it, and settled on a curacy with a very small fortune
of his own. The most excellent man that can be
imagined, perfect in character, temper, and manner,
without the smallest drawback or peculiarity to pre-
vent his being the most delightful companion to his
daughter from one year's end to the other. Heroine
faultless in character, beautiful in person, and pos-
sessing every possible accomplishment. Book to open
with father and daughter conversing in long speeches,
elegant language, and a tone of high serious senti-
ment. The father induced, at his daughter's earnest
request, to relate to her the past events of his life.
Narrative to reach through the greater part of the
first volume ; as besides all the circumstances of his
attachment to her mother, and their marriage, it will
comprehend his going to sea as chaplain to a distin-
guished naval character about the court ; and his
going afterwards to court himself, which involved him
in many interesting situations, concluding with his
opinion of the benefits of tithes being done away with.
. . . From this outset the story will proceed, and con-

120 A Memoir of

tain a striking variety of adventures. Father an ex-
emplary parish priest, and devoted to literature ; but
heroine and father never above a fortnight in one
place : he being driven from his curacy by the vile
arts of some totally unprincipled and heartless young
man, desperately in love with the heroine, and pur-
suing her with unrelenting passion. No sooner set-
tled in one country of Europe, than they are compelled
to quit it, and retire to another, always making new
acquaintance, and always obliged to leave them. This
will of course exhibit a wide variety of character.
The scene will be for ever shifting from one set of
people to another, but there will be no mixture, all
the good will be unexceptionable in every respect.
There will be no foibles or weaknesses but with the
wicked, who will be completely depraved and in-
famous, hardly a resemblance of humanity left in
them. Early in her career, the heroine must meet
with the hero : all perfection, of course, and only pre-
vented from paying his addresses to her by some
excess of refinement. Wherever she goes, somebody
falls in love with her, and she receives repeated offers
of marriage, which she refers wholly to her father,
exceedingly angry that he should not be the first
applied to. Often carried away by the anti-hero, but
rescued either by her father or the hero. Often re-
duced to support herself and her father by her talents,
and work for her bread ; continually cheated, and
defrauded of her hire ; worn down to a skeleton, and
now and then starved to death. At last, hunted out
of civilised society, denied the poor shelter of the

Jane Atisten. 121

humblest cottage, they are compelled to retreat into
Kamtschatka, where the poor father quite worn down,
finding his end approaching, throws himself on the
ground, and after four or five hours of tender advice
and parental admonition to his miserable child, ex-
pires in a fine burst of literary enthusiasm, inter-
mingled with invectives against the holders of tithes.
Heroine inconsolable for some time, but afterwards
crawls back towards her former country, having at
least twenty narrow escapes of falling into the hands
of anti-hero ; and at last, in the very nick of time,
turning a corner to avoid him, runs into the arms of
the hero himself, who, having just shaken off the
scruples which fettered him before, was at the very
moment setting off in pursuit of her. The tenderest
and completest eclaircissement takes place, and they
are happily united. Throughout the whole work
heroine to be in the most elegant society, and living
in high style/

Since the first publication of this memoir, Mr.
Murray of Albemarle Street has very kindly sent to
me copies of the following letters, which his father
received from Jane Austen, when engaged in the
publication of ' Emma.' The increasing cordiality of
the letters shows that the author felt that her inte-
rests were duly cared for, and was glad to find herself
in the hands of a publisher whom she could consider
as a friend.

Her brother had addressed to Mr. Murray a strong
complaint of the tardiness of a printer : —

122 A Memoir of

'23 Hans Place, Thursday, November 23 (1815).

' SIR, — My brother's note last Monday has been so-
fruitless, that I am afraid there can be but little
chance of my writing to any good effect ; but yet I
am so very much disappointed and vexed by the
delays of the printers, that I cannot help begging to
know whether there is no hope of their being quick-
ened. Instead of the work being ready by the end
of the present month, it will hardly, at the rate we
now proceed, be finished by the end of the next ; and
as I expect to leave London early in December, it is
of consequence that no more time should be lost. Is
it likely that the printers will be influenced to greater
dispatch and punctuality by knowing that the work
is to be dedicated, by permission, to the Prince
Regent ? If you can make that circumstance operate,
I shall be very glad. My brother returns ( Waterloo'
with many thanks for the loan of it. We have heard
much of Scott's account of Paris.* If it be not
incompatible with other arrangements, would you
favour us with it, supposing you have any set already
opened ? You may depend upon its being in careful
hands.

1 1 remain, Sir, your ob*' humble Se tm

'J. Austen.'

' Hans Place, December 11 (181 5).

'DEAR SIR, — As I find that "Emma" is advertised
for publication as early as Saturday next, I think it
best to lose no time in settling all that remains to be

* This must have been l Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk.'

Jane A us ten. 125

settled on the subject, and adopt this method as in-
volving the smallest tax on your time.

' In the first place, I beg you to understand that I
leave the terms on which the trade should be sup-
plied with the work entirely to your judgment, en-
treating you to be guided in every such arrangement
by your own experience of what is most likely to
clear off the edition rapidly. I shall be satisfied
with whatever you feel to be best. The title-page
must be "Emma, dedicated by permission to H.R.H.
the Prince Regent." And it is my particular wish that
one set should be completed and sent to H.R.H. two
or three days before the work is generally public. It
should be sent under cover to the Rev. J. S. Clarke,
Librarian, Carlton House. I shall subjoin a list of
those persons to whom I must trouble you to forward
also a set each, when the work is out ; all unbound,
with " From the Authoress " in the first page.

' I return you, with very many thanks, the books
you have so obligingly supplied me with. I am very
sensible, I assure you, of the attention you have paid
to my convenience and amusement. I return also
" Mansfield Park," as ready for a second edition, I
believe, as I can make it I am in Hans Place till
the 16th. From that day inclusive, my direction will
be Chawton, Alton, Hants.

' I remain, dear Sir,

' Y r faithful humb. Serv*'

*J. Austen.

* I wish you would have the goodness to send a line

124 A Memoir of

by the bearer, stating the day on which the set will be
ready for the Prince Regent.'

* Hans Place, December n (1815).
' DEAR SIR, — I am much obliged by yours, and
very happy to feel everything arranged to our mutual
satisfaction. As to my direction about the title-page,
it was arising from my ignorance only, and from my
having never noticed the proper place for a dedication.
I thank you for putting me right. Any deviation
from what is usually done in such cases is the last
thing I should wish for. I feel happy in having a
friend to save me from the ill effect of my own
blunder.

'Yours, dear Sir, &c.

<J. Austen.'

'Chawton, April I, 181 6.

'Dear Sir, — I return you the "Quarterly Review"
with many thanks. The Authoress of " Emma " has
no reason, I think, to complain of her treatment in it,
except in the total omission of " Mansfield Park." I
cannot but be sorry that so clever a man as the
Reviewer of "Emma" should consider it as unworthy
of being noticed. You will be pleased to hear that I
have received the Prince's thanks for the handsome
copy I sent him of " Emma." Whatever he may think
of my share of the work, yours seems to have been
quite right.

'In consequence of the late event in Henrietta
Street, I must request that if you should at any time

Jane Austen. 125

have anything to communicate by letter, you will be
so good as to write by the post, directing to me (Miss
J. Austen), Chawton, near Alton ; and that for any-
thing of a larger bulk, you will add to the same
direction, by Collier's Southampton coach.
1 1 remain, dear Sir,

' Yours very faithfully,

' J. Austen/

About the same time the following letters passed
between the Countess of Morley and the writer of
' Emma/ I do not know whether they were personally
acquainted with each other, nor in what this inter-
change of civilities originated : —

The Countess of Morley to Miss J. Austen.

' Saltram, December 27 (1815).

6 MADAM, — I have been most anxiously waiting for
an introduction to "Emma," and am infinitely obliged
to you for your kind recollection of me, which will
procure me the pleasure of her acquaintance some
days sooner than I should otherwise have had it. I
am already become intimate with the Woodhouse
family, and feel that they will not amuse and interest
me less than the Bennetts, Bertrams, Norrises, and
all their admirable predecessors. I can give them no
higher praise.

' I am, Madam, your much obliged

1 F. Morley/

126 A Memoir of

Miss y. Austen to the Countess of M or ley.

'Madam, — Accept my thanks for the honour of
your note, and for your kind disposition in favour of
" Emma." In my present state of doubt as to her re-
ception in the world, it is particularly gratifying to
me to receive so early an assurance of your Lady-
ship's approbation. It encourages me to depend on the
same share of general good opinion which " Emma's "
predecessors have experienced, and to believe that I
have not yet, as almost every writer of fancy does
sooner or later, overwritten myself.
' I am, Madam,
' Your obliged and faithful Serv**

' J. Austen.

* December 31, 1 815.*

Jane Austen. 127

CHAPTER VIII.

Slow growth of her fame — III success of first attempts at publication —
Two Reviews of her works contrasted.

SELDOM has any literary reputation been of such
slow growth as that of Jane Austen. Readers of the
present day know the rank that is generally assigned
to her. They have been told by Archbishop Whately,
in his review of her works, and by Lord Macaulay, in
his review of Madame D'Arblay's, the reason why
the highest place is to be awarded to Jane Austen, as
a truthful drawer of character, and why she is to be
classed with those who have approached nearest, in
that respect, to the great master Shakspeare. They
see her safely placed, by such authorities, in her niche,
not indeed amongst the highest orders of genius, but
in one confessedly her own, in our British temple of
literary fame ; and it may be difficult to make them
believe how coldly her works were at first received,
and how few readers had any appreciation of their
peculiar merits. Sometimes a friend or neighbour,
who chanced to know of our connection with the
author, would condescend to speak with moderate
approbation of ' Sense and Sensibility,' or r Pride and
Prejudice ' ; but if they had known that we, in our
secret thoughts, classed her with Madame D'Arblay

1

128 A Memoir of

or Miss Edgeworth, or even with some other novel
writers of the day whose names are now scarcely
remembered, they would have considered it an
amusing instance of family conceit. To the multi-
tude her works appeared tame and commonplace,*
poor in colouring, and sadly deficient in incident and
interest. It is true that we were sometimes cheered
by hearing that a different verdict had been pro-
nounced by more competent judges : we were told
how some great statesman or distinguished poet held
these works in high estimation ; we had the satisfac-
tion of believing that they were most admired by the
best judges, and comforted ourselves with Horace's
* satis est Equitem mihi plaudere.' So much was this
the case, that one of the ablest men of my acquaint-
ance f said, in that kind of jest which has much
earnest in it, that he had established it in his own
mind, as a new test of ability, whether people could
or could not appreciate Miss Austen's merits.

But though such golden opinions were now and
then gathered in, yet the wide field of public taste

* A greater genius than my aunt shared with her the imputation of
being commonplace. Lockhart, speaking of the low estimation in which
Scott's conversational powers were held in the literary and scientific
society of Edinburgh, says : ' I think the epithet most in vogue con-
cerning it was " commonplace." ' He adds, however, that one of the
most eminent of that society was of a different opinion, 'who, when
some glib youth chanced to echo in his hearing the consolatory tenet of
local mediocrity, answered quietly, * ' I have the misfortune to think
differently from you — in my humble opinion Walter Scott's sense is a
still more wonderful thing than his genius." ' — Lockhart's Life of Scott,
vol. iv. chap. v.

t The late Mr. R. H. Cheney.

Jane A usten. 1 29

yielded no adequate return either in praise or profit.
Her reward was not to be the quick return of the
cornfield, but the slow growth of the tree which is to
endure to another generation. Her first attempts at
publication were very discouraging. In November,
1797, her father wrote the following letter to Mr.
Cadell :—

' Sir, — I have in my possession a manuscript novel,
comprising 3 vols., about the length of Miss Burney's
" Evelina." As I am well aware of what consequence
it is that a work of this sort sh d make its first appear-
ance under a respectable name, I apply to you. I
shall be much obliged therefore if you will inform me
whether you choose to be concerned in it, what will
be the expense of publishing it at the author's risk,
and what you will venture to advance for the property
of it, if on perusal it is approved of. Should you
give any encouragement, I will send you the work.
i I am, Sir, your humble Servant,

' George Austen/

' Steventon, near Overton, Hants,
' 1st Nov. 1797.'

This proposal was declined by return of post ! The
work thus summarily rejected must have been 'Pride
and Prejudice/

The fate of ' Northanger Abbey ' was still more
humiliating. It was sold, in 1803, to a publisher in
Bath, for ten pounds, but it found so little favour in
his eyes, that he chose to abide by his first loss rather

K

130 A Memoir of

than risk farther expense by publishing such a work.
It seems to have lain for many years unnoticed in his
drawers ; somewhat as the first chapters of 'Waverley'
lurked forgotten amongst the old fishing-tackle in
Scott's cabinet. Tilneys, Thorpes, and Morlands
consigned apparently to eternal oblivion ! But
when four novels of steadily increasing success had
given the writer some confidence in herself, she
wished to recover the copyright of this early work.
One of her brothers undertook the negotiation. He
found the purchaser very willing to receive back his
money, and to resign all claim to the copyright.
When the bargain was concluded and the money
paid, but not till then, the negotiator had the satis-
faction of informing him that the work which had
been so lightly esteemed was by the author of ' Pride
and Prejudice/ I do not think that she was herself
much mortified by the want of early success. She
wrote for her own amusement. Money, though ac-
ceptable, was not necessary for the moderate expenses
of her quiet home. Above all, she was blessed with
a cheerful contented disposition, and an humble mind ;
and so lowly did she esteem her own claims, that
when she received 150/. from the sale of i Sense and
Sensibility/ she considered it a prodigious recompense
for that which had cost her nothing. It cannot be
supposed, however, that she was altogether insensible
to the superiority of her own workmanship over that
of some contemporaries who were then enjoying a
brief popularity. Indeed a few touches in the follow-
ing extracts from two of her letters show that she

Jane Austen. 131

was as quicksighted to absurdities in composition as
to those in living persons.

1 Mr. C.'s opinion is gone down in my list ; but as
my paper relates only to il Mansfield Park," I may
fortunately excuse myself from entering Mr. D.'s. I
will redeem my credit with him by writing a close
imitation of " Self-Control," as soon as I can. I will
improve upon it. My heroine shall not only be wafted
down an American river in a boat by herself. She
shall cross the Atlantic in the same way ; and never
stop till she reaches Gravesend.'

' We have got " Rosanne " in our Society, and find
it much as you describe it ; very good and clever, but
tedious. Mrs. Hawkins' great excellence is on serious
subjects. There are some very delightful conver-
sations and reflections on religion : but on lighter
topics I think she falls into many absurdities ; and,
as to love, her heroine has very comical feelings.
There are a thousand improbabilities in the story.
Do you remember the two Miss Ormsdens introduced
just at last ? Very flat and unnatural. Mad eUe *
Cossart is rather my passion.'

Two notices of her works appeared in the ' Quarterly
Review.' One in October 1815, and another, more
than three years after her death, in January 182 1.
The latter article is known to have been from the
pen of Whately, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin*

* Lockhart had supposed that this article had been written by Scott,
because it exactly accorded with the opinions which Scott had often
been heard to express, but he learned afterwards that it had been written
by "Whately j and Lockhart, who became the Editor of the Quarterly,

K 2

132 A Memoir of

They differ much from each other in the degree of
praise which they award, and I think also it may be
said, in the ability with which they are written.
The first bestows some approval, but the other ex-
presses the warmest admiration. One can scarcely
be satisfied with the critical acumen of the former
writer, who, in treating of ' Sense and Sensibility/
takes no notice whatever of the vigour with which
many of the characters are drawn, but declares that
* the interest and merit of the piece depends altogether
upon the behaviour of the elder sister ! ' Nor is he
fair when, in ' Pride and Prejudice/ he represents
Elizabeth's change of sentiments towards Darcy as
caused by the sight of his house and grounds. But
the chief discrepancy between the two reviewers is
to be found in their appreciation of the common-
place and silly characters to be found in these novels.
On this point the difference almost amounts to a
contradiction, such as one sometimes sees drawn up
in parallel columns, when it is desired to convict
some writer or some statesman of inconsistency.
The Reviewer, in 18 1 5, says: 'The faults of these
works arise from the minute detail which the author's
plan comprehends. Characters of folly or simplicity,
such as those of old Woodhouse and Miss Bates,
are ridiculous when first presented, but if too often
brought forward, or too long dwelt on, their prosing

must have had the means of knowing the truth. (See Lockhart's Life
of Sir Walter Scott, vol. v. p. 158.) I remember that, at the time when
the review came out, it was reported in Oxford that Whately had written
the article at the request of the lady whom he afterwards married.

Jane Austen. 133

is apt to become as tiresome in fiction as in real
society/ The Reviewer, in 1 821, on the contrary,
singles out the fools as especial instances of the
writer's abilities, and declares that in this respect she
shows a regard to character hardly exceeded by
Shakspeare himself. These are his words : ( Like
him (Shakspeare) she shows as admirable a discrimi-
nation in the character of fools as of people of sense ;
a merit which is far from common. To invent indeed
a conversation full of wisdom or of wit requires that
the writer should himself possess ability ; but the
converse does not hold good, it is no fool that can
describe fools well ; and many who have succeeded
pretty well in painting superior characters have failed
in giving individuality to those weaker ones which it
is necessary to introduce in order to give a faithful
representation of real life : they exhibit to us mere
folly in the abstract, forgetting that to the eye of the
skilful naturalist the insects on a leaf present as
wide differences as exist between the lion and the
elephant. Slender, and Shallow, and Aguecheek, as
Shakspeare has painted them, though equally fools,
resemble one another no more than Richard, and
Macbeth, and Julius Caesar ; and Miss Austen's *
Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Rushworth, and Miss Bates are no
more alike than her Darcy, Knightley, and Edmund
Bertram. Some have complained indeed of finding
her fools too much like nature, and consequently
tiresome. There is no disputing about tastes ; all we

* In transcribing this passage I have taken the liberty so far to cor-
rect it as to spell her name properly with an ' e. '

1 34 A Memoir of

can say is, that such critics must (whatever deference
they may outwardly pay to received opinions) find
the " Merry Wives of Windsor " and " Twelfth Night"
very tiresome ; and that those who look with pleasure
at Wilkie's picture, or those of the Dutch school,
must admit that excellence of imitation may confer
attraction on that which would be insipid or disagree-
able in the reality. Her minuteness of detail has
also been found fault with ; but even where it pro-
duces, at the time, a degree of tediousness, we know
not whether that can justly be reckoned a blemish,
which is absolutely essential to a very high excellence.
Now it is absolutely impossible, without this, to pro-
duce that thorough acquaintance with the characters
which is necessary to make the reader heartily in-
terested in them. Let any one cut out from the
" Iliad " or from Shakspeare's plays everything (we
are far from saying that either might not lose some
parts with advantage, but let him reject everything)
which is absolutely devoid of importance and interest
in itself \ and he will find that what is left will have
lost more than half its charms. We are convinced
that some writers have diminished the effect of their
works by being scrupulous to admit nothing into
them which had not some absolute and independent
merit. They have acted like those who strip off the
leaves of a fruit tree, as being of themselves good for
nothing, with the view of securing more nourishment
to the fruit, which in fact cannot attain its full matu-
rity and flavour without them.'

The world, I think, has endorsed the opinion of

Jane A listen. 135

the later writer ; but it would not be fair to set down
the discrepancy between the two entirely to the dis-
credit of the former. The fact is that, in the course
of the intervening faz years, these works had been
read and reread by many leaders in the literary
world. The public taste was forming itself all this
time, and 'grew by what it fed on.' These novels
belong to a class which gain rather than lose by fre-
quent perusals, and it is probable that each Reviewer
represented fairly enough the prevailing opinions of
readers in the year when each wrote.

Since that time, the testimonies in favour of Jane
Austen's works have been continual and almost un-
animous. They are frequently referred to as models ;
nor have they lost their first distinction of being
especially acceptable to minds of the highest order.
I shall indulge myself by collecting into the next
chapter instances of the homage paid to her by such
persons.

136 A Memoir of

CHAPTER IX.

Opinions expressed by eminent persons — Opinions of others of less
eminence — Opinion of American readers.

INTO this list of the admirers of my Aunt's works, I
admit those only whose eminence will be universally
acknowledged. No doubt the number might have
been increased.

Southey, in a letter to Sir Egerton Brydges, says :
'You mention Miss Austen. Her novels are more
true to nature, and have, for my sympathies, passages
of finer feeling than any others of this age. She was
a person of whom I have heard so well and think so
highly, that I regret not having had an opportunity
of testifying to her the respect which I felt for her.'

It may be observed that Southey had probably
heard from his own family connections of the charm of
her private character. A friend of hers, the daughter
of Mr. Bigge Wither, of Manydown Park near Basing-
stoke, was married to S outh ey's- uncle, the Rev. Her-
bert Hill, who had been useful to his nephew in many
ways, and especially in supplying him with the means
of attaining his extensive knowledge of Spanish and
Portuguese literature. Mr. Hill had been Chaplain to
the British Factory at Lisbon, where Southey visited

Jane Austen. IZ7

him and had the use of a library in those languages
which his uncle had collected. Southey himself con-
tinually mentions his uncle Hill in terms of respect
and gratitude.

S. T. Coleridge would sometimes burst out into high
encomiums of Miss Austen's novels as being, ' in their
way, perfectly genuine and individual productions/

I remember Miss Mitford's saying to me : ' I would
almost cut off one of my hands, if it would enable me
to write like your aunt with the other.'

The biographer of Sir J. Mackintosh says : 'Some-
thing recalled to his mind the traits of character which
are so delicately touched in Miss Austen's novels. . .
He said that there was genius in sketching out that
new kind of novel. . . He was vexed for the credit of
the "Edinburgh Review" that it had left her un-
noticed.* . . The "Quarterly" had done her more
justice. . . It was impossible for a foreigner to under-
stand fully the merit of her works. Madame de Stael,
to whom he had recommended one of her novels, found
no interest in it ; and in her note to him in reply said
it was " vulgaire " : and yet, he said, nothing could be
more true than what he wrote in answer : " There is
no book which that word would so little suit." . . .
Every village could furnish matter for a novel to Miss
Austen. She did not need the common materials for
a novel, strong emotions, or strong incidents.* f

It was not, however, quite impossible for a foreigner

* Incidentally she had received high praise in Lord Macaulay's
Review of Madame D'Arblay's Works in the * Edinburgh. '
+ Life of Sir J. Mackintosh, vol. ii. p. 472.

138 A Memoir of

to appreciate these works ; for Mons. Guizot writes
thus : ' I am a great novel reader, but I seldom read
German or French novels. The characters are too
artificial. My delight is to read English novels, par-
ticularly those written by women. " C'est toute une
ecole de morale." Miss Austen, Miss Ferrier, &c,
form a school which in the excellence and profusion
of its productions resembles the cloud of dramatic
poets of the great Athenian age.*

In the 'Keepsake' of 1825 the following lines ap-
peared, written by Lord Morpeth, afterwards seventh
Earl of Carlisle, and Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland,
accompanying an illustration of a lady reading a
novel.

Beats thy quick pulse o'er Inchbald's thrilling leaf,

Brunton's high moral, Opie's deep wrought grief?

Has the mild chaperon claimed thy yielding heart,

Carroll's dark page, Trevelyan's gentle art ?

Or is it thou, all perfect Austen ? Here

Let one poor wreath adorn thy early bier,

That scarce allowed thy modest youth to claim

Its living portion of thy certain fame !

Oh ! Mrs. Bennet ! Mrs. Norris too !

While memory survives we'll dream of you.

And Mr. Woodhouse, whose abstemious lip

Must thin, but not too thin, his gruel sip.

Miss Bates, our idol, though the village bore ;

And Mrs. Elton, ardent to explore.

"While the dear style flows on without pretence,

"With unstained purity, and nnmatched sense : s

Or, if a sister e'er approached the throne,

She called the rich ' inheritance ' her own.

The admiration felt by Lord Macaulay would
probably have taken a very practical form, if his life

J a?ie Austen. 139

had been prolonged. I have the authority of his
sister, Lady Trevelyan, for stating that he had in-
tended to undertake the task upon which I have
ventured. He purposed to write a memoir of Miss
Austen, with criticisms on her works, to prefix it to a
new edition of her novels, and from the proceeds of
the sale to erect a monument to her memory in
Winchester Cathedral. Oh! that such an idea had
been realised ! That portion of the plan in which
Lord Macaulay's success would have been most certain
might have been almost sufficient for his object. A
memoir written by him would have been a monument.

I am kindly permitted by Sir Henry Holland to
give the following quotation from his printed but
unpublished recollections of his past life : —

' I have the picture still before me of Lord Holland
lying on his bed, when attacked with gout, his ad-
mirable sister, Miss Fox, beside him reading aloud, as
she always did on these occasions, some one of Miss
Austen's novels, of which he was never wearied. I
well recollect the time when these charming novels,
almost unique in their style of humour, burst suddenly
on the world. It was sad that their writer did not
live to witness the growth of her fame.'

My brother-in-law, Sir Denis Le Marchant, has
supplied me with the following anecdotes from his
own recollections: —

'When I was a student at Trinity College, Cam-
bridge, Mr. Whewell, then a Fellow and afterwards
Master of the College, often spoke to me with ad-

140 A Memoir of

miration of Miss Austen's novels. On one occasion
I said that I had found " Persuasion " rather dull.
He quite fired up in defence of it, insisting that it was
the most beautiful of her works. This accomplished
philosopher was deeply versed in works of fiction. I
recollect his writing to me from Caernarvon, where he
had the charge of some pupils, that he was weary of
his stay, for he had read the circulating library twice
through.

'During a visit I paid to Lord Lansdowne, at
Bowood, in 1846, one of Miss Austen's novels became
the subject of conversation and of praise, especially
from Lord Lansdowne, who observed that one of the
circumstances of his life which he looked back upon
with vexation was that Miss Austen should once have
been living some weeks in his neighbourhood without
his knowing it.

' I have heard Sydney Smith, more than once, dwell
with eloquence on the merits of Miss Austen's novels.
He told me he should have enjoyed giving her the
pleasure of reading her praises in the "Edinburgh
Review." " Fanny Price " was one of his prime
favourites.'

I close this list of testimonies, this long 'Catena
Patrum,' with the remarkable words of Sir Walter
Scott, taken from his diary for March 14, 1826:*
' Read again, for the third time at least, Miss Austen's
finely written novel of "Pride and Prejudice." That
young lady had a talent for describing the involve-
ments and feelings and characters of ordinary life,

* Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. vi. chap. vii.

Jane A usten. 1 4 r

which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with.
The big Bow- Wow strain I can do myself like any
now going; but the exquisite touch which renders
ordinary common-place things and characters in-
teresting from the truth of the description and the
sentiment is denied to me. What a pity such a
gifted creature died so early ! ' The well-worn con-
dition of Scott's own copy of these works attests that
they were much read in his family. When I visited
Abbotsford, a few years after Scott's death, I was
permitted, as an unusual favour, to take one of these
volumes in my hands. One cannot suppress the wish
that she had lived to know what such men thought
of her powers, and how gladly they would have
cultivated a personal acquaintance with her. I do
not think that it would at all have impaired the
modest simplicity of her character ; or that we should
have lost our own dear ' Aunt Jane ' in the blaze of
literary fame.

It may be amusing to contrast with these testi-
monies from the great, the opinions expressed by
other readers of more ordinary intellect. The author
herself has left a list of criticisms which it had been
her amusement to collect, through means of her
friends. This list contains much of warm-hearted
sympathising praise, interspersed with some opinions
which may be considered surprising.

One lady could say nothing better of ' Mansfield
Park/ than that it was e a mere novel.'

Another owned that she thought ' Sense and Sensi-
bility ' and ' Pride and Prejudice ' downright non-

142 A Memoir of

sense ; but expected to like ' Mansfield Park ' better,
and having finished the first volume, hoped that she
had got through the worst.

Another did not like 'Mansfield Park.' Nothing
interesting in the characters. Language poor.

One gentleman read the first and last chapters of
' Emma/ but did not look at the rest, because he had
been told that it was not interesting.

The opinions of another gentleman about ' Emma '
were so bad that they could not be reported to the
author.

' Quot homines, tot sentential

Thirty-five years after her death there came also a
voice of praise from across the Atlantic. In 1852
the following letter was received by her brother Sir
Francis Austen : —

* Boston, Massachusetts, U. S. A.
6th Jan. 1852.

* Since high critical authority has pronounced the
delineations of character in the works of Jane Austen
second only to those of Shakspeare, transatlantic
admiration appears superfluous ; yet it may not be
uninteresting to her family to receive an assurance
that the influence of her genius is extensively recog-
nised in the American Republic, even by the highest
judicial authorities. The late Mr. Chief Justice Mar-
shall, of the supreme Court of the United States, and
his associate Mr. Justice Story, highly estimated and
admired Miss Austen, and to them we owe our intro-
duction to her society. For many years her talents
have brightened our daily path, and her name and

Jane Austen. 143

those of her characters are familiar to us as " house-
hold words." We have long wished to express to
some of her family the sentiments of gratitude and
affection she has inspired, and request more infor-
mation relative to her life than is given in the brief
memoir prefixed to her works.

' Having accidentally heard that a brother of Jane
Austen held a high rank in the British Navy, we
have obtained his address from our friend Admiral
Wormley, now resident in Boston, and we trust this
expression of our feeling will be received by her
relations with the kindness and urbanity characte-
ristic of Admirals of her creation. Sir Francis Austen,
or one of his family, would confer a great favour by
complying with our request. The autograph of his
sister, or a few lines in her handwriting, would be
placed among our chief treasures.

1 The family who delight in the companionship of
Jane Austen, and who present this petition, are of
English origin. Their ancestor held a high rank
among the first emigrants to New England, and
his name and character have been ably represented
by his descendants in various public stations of trust
and responsibility to the present time in the colony
and state of Massachusetts. A letter addressed to
Miss Quincey, care of the Hon ble Josiah Ouincey,
Boston, Massachusetts, would reach its destination.'

Sir Francis Austen returned a suitable reply to
this application ; and sent a long letter of his sister's,
which, no doubt, still occupies the place of honour
promised by the Ouincey family.

144 -A Memoir of

CHAPTER X.

Observations on the Novels,

It is not the object of these memoirs to attempt a
criticism on Jane Austen's novels. Those particulars
only have been noticed which could be illustrated by
the circumstances of her own life ; but I now desire to
offer a few observations on them, and especially on
one point, on which my age renders me a competent
witness — the fidelity with which they represent the
opinions and manners of the class of society in which
the author lived early in this century. They do this
the more faithfully on account of the very deficiency
with which they have been sometimes charged —
namely, that they make no attempt to raise the
standard of human life, but merely represent it as it
was. They certainly were not written to support any
theory or inculcate any particular moral, except in-
deed the great moral which is to be equally gathered
from an observation of the course of actual life —
namely, the superiority of high over low principles,
and of greatness over littleness of mind. These
writings are like photographs, in which no feature is
softened ; no ideal expression is introduced, all is the
unadorned reflection of the natural object ; and the

Jane Austen. 145

value of such a faithful likeness must increase as
time gradually works more and more changes in the
face of society itself. A remarkable instance of this
is to be found in her portraiture of the clergy. She
was the daughter and the sister of clergymen, who
certainly were not low specimens of their order : and
she has chosen three of her heroes from that pro-
fession ; but no one in these days can think that
either Edmund Bertram or Henry Tilney had ade-
quate ideas of the duties of a parish minister. Such,
however, were the opinions and practice then pre-
valent among respectable and conscientious clergy-
men before their minds had been stirred, first by the
Evangelical, and afterwards by the High Church
movement which this century has witnessed. The
country may be congratulated which, on looking
back to such a fixed landmark, can find that it has
been advancing instead of receding from it.

The long interval that elapsed between the com-
pletion of f Northanger Abbey ' in 1 798, and the
commencement of ' Mansfield Park' in 181 1, may
sufficiently account for any difference of style which
may be perceived between her three earlier and her
three later productions. If the former showed quite
as much originality and genius, they may perhaps be
thought to have less of the faultless finish and high
polish which distinguish the latter. The characters
of the John Dashwoods, Mr. Collins, and the Thorpes
stand out from the canvas with a vigour and origi-
nality which cannot be surpassed ; but I think that
in her last three works are to be found a greater

L

146 A Memoir of

refinement of taste, a more nice sense of propriety,
and a deeper insight into the delicate anatomy of
the human heart, marking the difference between
the brilliant girl and the mature woman. Far from
being one of those who have over-written themselves,
it may be affirmed that her fame would have stood
on a narrower and less firm basis, if she had not lived
to resume her pen at Chawton.

Some persons have surmised that she took her
characters from individuals with whom she had been
acquainted. They were so life-like that it was as-
sumed that they must once have lived, and have
been transferred bodily, as it were, into her pages.
But surely such a supposition betrays an ignorance
of the high prerogative of genius to create out of its
own resources imaginary characters, who shall be
true to nature and consistent in themselves. Perhaps,
however, the distinction between keeping true to
nature and servilely copying any one specimen of it
is not always clearly apprehended. It is indeed
true, both of the writer and of the painter, that he
can use only such lineaments as exist, and as he
has observed to exist, in living objects ; otherwise he
would produce monsters instead of human beings ;
but in both it is the office of high art to mould these
features into new combinations, and to place them in
the attitudes, and impart to them the expressions
which may suit the purposes of the artist ; so that
they are nature, but not exactly the same nature
which had come before his eyes ; just as honey can
be obtained only from the natural flowers which the

Jane Austen. 147

bee has sucked ; yet it is not a reproduction of the
odour or flavour of any particular flower, but becomes
something different when it has gone through the
process of transformation which that little insect is
able to effect. Hence, in the case of painters, arises
the superiority of original compositions over portrait
painting. Reynolds was exercising a higher faculty
when he designed Comedy and Tragedy contending
for Garrick, than when he merely took a likeness of
that actor. The same difference exists in writings
between the original conceptions of Shakspeare and
some other creative geniuses, and such full-length
likenesses of individual persons, ' The Talking Gentle-
man ' for instance, as are admirably drawn by Miss
Mitford. Jane Austen's powers, whatever may be
the degree in which she possessed them, were cer-
tainly of that higher order. She did not copy
individuals, but she invested her own creations
with individuality of character. A reviewer in the
' Quarterly' speaks of an acquaintance who 5 ever
since the publication of ' Pride and Prejudice,' had
been called by his friends Mr. Bennet, but the author
did not know him. Her own relations never recog-
nised any individual in her characters ; and I can
call to mind several of her acquaintance whose pecu-
liarities were very tempting and easy to be carica-
tured of whom there are no traces in her pages. She
herself, when questioned on the subject by a friend,
expressed a dread of what she called such an ' inva-
sion of social proprieties.' She said that she thought
it quite fair to note peculiarities and weaknesses, but

148 A Memoir of

that it was her desire to create, not to reproduce ;
' besides/ she added, ' I am too proud of my gentle-
men to admit that they were only Mr. A. or Colonel
B/ She did not, however, suppose that her imagi-
nary characters were of a higher order than are to be
found in nature ; for she said, when speaking of two
of her great favourites, Edmund Bertram and Mr.
Knightley : ' They are very far from being what I know
English gentlemen often are/

She certainly took a kind of parental interest in
the beings whom she had created, and did not dis-
miss them from her thoughts when she had finished
her last chapter. We have seen, in one of her letters,
her personal affection for Darcy and Elizabeth ; and
when sending a copy of ' Emma ' to a friend whose
daughter had been lately born, she wrote thus : ' I
trust you will be as glad to see my " Emma," as I
shall be to see your Jemima.' She was very fond of
'Emma, but did not reckon on her being a general
favourite ; for, when commencing that work, she said,
; I am going to take a heroine whom no one but
myself will much like/ She would, if asked, tell us
many little particulars about the subsequent career
of some of her people. In this traditionary way we
learned that Miss Steele never succeeded in catch-
ing the Doctor ; that Kitty Bennet was satisfactorily
married to a clergyman near Pemberley, while Mary
obtained nothing higher than one of her uncle Philip's
clerks, and was content to be considered a star in
the society of Meriton ; that the ' considerable sum '
.given by Mrs. Norris to William Price was one

tanc Austen. * 149

pound ; that Mr. Woodhouse survived his daughter's
marriage, and kept her and Mr. Knightley from
settling at Donwell, about two years; and that the
letters placed by Frank Churchill before Jane Fairfax,
which she swept away unread, contained the word
' pardon.' Of the good people in ' Northanger Abbey'
and ' Persuasion ' we know nothing more than what is
written : for before those works were published their
author had been taken away from us, and all such
amusing communications had ceased for ever.

1 50" A Memoir of

CHAPTER XL

Declining health of Jane Austen — Elasticity of her spirits — Her
?'esigiiation and humility — Her death.

Early in the year 18 16 some family troubles dis-
turbed the usually tranquil course of Jane Austen's
life ; and it is probable that the inward malady,
which was to prove ultimately fatal, was already felt
by her ; for some distant friends,* whom she visited
in the spring of that year, thought that her health
was somewhat impaired, and observed that she went
about her old haunts, and recalled old recollections
connected with them in a particular manner, as if she
did not expect ever to see them again. It is not
surprising that, under these circumstances, some of
her letters were of a graver tone than had been
customary with her, and expressed resignation rather
than cheerfulness. In reference to these troubles in
a letter to her brother Charles, after mentioning that
she had been laid up with an attack of bilious fever,
she says : ' I live up stairs for the present and am
coddled. I am the only one of the party who has
been so silly, but a weak body must excuse weak
nerves.' And again, to another correspondent : ' But

* The Fowles, of Kintbury, in Berkshire.

Jane A us ten. 1 5 1

I am getting too near complaint ; it has been the
appointment of God, however secondary causes may
have operated.' But the elasticity of her spirits soon
recovered their tone. It was in the latter half of that
year that she addressed the two following lively
letters to a nepliew, one while he was at Winchester
School, the other soon after he had left it : —

'Chawton, July 9, 1816.

' My Dear E. — Many thanks. A thank for every
line, and as many to Mr. W. Digweed for coming.
We have been wanting very much to hear of your
mother, and are happy to find she continues to mend,
but her illness must have been a very serious one
indeed. When she is really recovered, she ought to
try change of air, and come over to us. Tell your
father that I am very much obliged to him for his
share of your letter, and most sincerely join in the
hope of her being eventually much the better for her
present discipline. She has the comfort moreover of
being confined in such weather as gives one little
temptation to be out. It is really too bad, and has
been too bad for a long time, much worse than any
one can bear, and I begin to think it will never be
fine again. This is a finesse of mine, for I have often
observed that if one writes about the weather, it is
generally completely changed before the letter is
read. I wish it may prove so now, and that when
Mr. W. Digweed reaches Steventon to-morrow, he
may find you have had a long series of hot dry
weather. We are a small party at present, only

152 A Memoir of

grandmamma, Mary Jane, and myself. Yalden's
coach cleared off the rest yesterday. I am glad you
recollected to mention your being come home.* My
heart began to sink within me when I had got so far
through your letter without its being mentioned. I
was dreadfully afraid that you might be detained at
Winchester by severe illness, confined to your bed
perhaps, and quite unable to hold a pen, and only
dating from Steventon in order, with a mistaken sort
of tenderness, to deceive me. But now I have no
doubt of your being at home. I am sure you would
not say it so seriously unless it actually were so.
We saw a countless number of post-chaises full of
boys pass by yesterday morning*)* — full of future
heroes, legislators, fools, and villains. You have
never thanked me for my last letter, which went by
the cheese. I cannot bear not to be thanked. You
will not pay us a visit yet of course ; we must not
think of it. Your mother must get well first, and
you must go to Oxford and not be elected ; after that
a little change of scene may be good for you, and
your physicians I hope will order you to the sea, or
to a house by the side of a very considerable pond.J
Oh ! it rains again. It beats against the window.
Mary Jane and I have been wet through once already

* It seems that her young correspondent, after dating from his home,
had been so superfluous as to state in his letter that he was returned
home, and thus to have drawn on himself this banter.

+ The road by which many Winchester boys returned home ran close
to Chawton Cottage.

% There was, though it exists no longer, a pond close to Chawton
Cottage, at the junction of the Winchester and Gosport roads.

Jane A listen. 153

to-day ; we set off in the donkey-carriage for Far-
ringdon, as I wanted to see the improvement Mr.
Woolls is making, but we were obliged to turn back
before we got there, but not soon enough to avoid a
pelter all the way home. We met Mr. Woolls. I
talked of its being bad weather for the hay, and he
returned me the comfort of its being much worse
for the wheat. We hear that Mrs. S. does not quit
Tangier : why and wherefore ? Do you know that
our Browning is gone ? You must prepare for a
William when you come, a good-looking lad, civil
and quiet, and seeming likely to do. Good bye. I
am sure Mr. W. D.* will be astonished at my writing
so much, for the paper is so thin that he will be able
to count the lines if not to read them.
' Yours affec ,y ,

' Jane Austen.'

In the next letter will be found her description of
her own style of composition, which has already ap-
peared in the notice prefixed to ' Northanger Abbey '
and f Persuasion ' : —

'Chawton, Monday, Dec. 16th (1816).

' My Dear E., — One reason for my writing to you
now is, that I may have the pleasure of directing to
you Esq re * I give you joy of having left Winchester.
Now you may own how miserable you were there ;
now it will gradually all come out, your crimes and

* Mr. Digweed, who conveyed the letters to and from Chawton,
was the gentleman named in page 21, as renting the old manor-house
and the large farm at Steventon.

1 54 A Memoir of

your miseries — how often you went up by the Mail
to London and threw away fifty guineas at a tavern,
and how often you were on the point of hanging
yourself, restrained only, as some ill-natured aspersion
upon poor old Winton has it, by the want of a tree
within some miles of the city. Charles Knight and
his companions passed through Chawton about 9
this morning ; later than it used to be. Uncle
Henry and I had a glimpse of his handsome face,
looking all health and good humour. I wonder
when you will come and see us. I know what I
rather speculate upon, but shall say nothing. We
think uncle Henry in excellent looks. Look at him
this moment, and think so too, if you have not done
it before ; and we have the great comfort of seeing
decided improvement in uncle Charles, both as to
health, spirits, and appearance. And they are each
of them so agreeable in their different way, and
harmonise so well, that their visit is thorough enjoy-
ment. Uncle Henry writes very superior sermons.
You and I must try to get hold of one or two, and
put them into our novels : it would be a fine help to
a volume ; and we could make our heroine read it
aloud on a Sunday evening, just as well as Isabella
Wardour, in the "Antiquary," is made to read the
" History of the Hartz Demon " in the ruins of St.
Ruth, though I believe, on recollection, Loveli is the
reader. By the bye, my dear K, I am quite con-
cerned for the loss your mother mentions in her
letter. Two chapters and a half to be missing is
monstrous ! It is well that / have not been at

Jane A usten. 155

Steventon lately, and therefore cannot be suspected
of purloining them : two strong twigs and a half
towards a nest of my own would have been some-
thing. I do not think, however, that any theft of that
sort would be really very useful to me. What should
I do with your strong, manly, vigorous sketches, full
of variety and glow? How could I possibly join
them on to the little bit (two inches wide) of ivory
on which I work with so fine a brush, as produces
little effect after much labour ?

' You will hear from uncle Henry how well Anna
is. She seems perfectly recovered. Ben was here on
Saturday, to ask uncle Charles and me to dine with
them, as to-morrow, but I was forced to decline it,
the walk is beyond my strength (though I am other-
wise very well), and this is not a season for donkey-
carriages ; and as we do not like to spare uncle
Charles, he has declined it too. Tuesday. Ah, ah !
Mr. E. I doubt your seeing uncle Henry at Steven-
ton to-day. The weather will prevent your expecting
him, I think. Tell your father, with aunt Cass's love
and mine, that the pickled cucumbers are extremely
good, and tell him also — "tell him what you will."
No, don't tell him what you will, but tell him that
grandmamma begs him to make Joseph Hall pay
his rent, if he can.

' You must not be tired of reading the word uncle,
for I have not done with it Uncle Charles thanks
your mother for her letter ; it was a great pleasure
to him to know that the parcel was received and
gave so much satisfaction, and he begs her to be so

156 A Memoir of

good as to give three shillings for him to Dame
Staples, which shall be allowed for in the payment
of her debt here.

* Adieu, Amiable ! I hope Caroline behaves well

to you.

' Yours affec ly ,

' J. Austen.'

I cannot tell how soon she was aware of the serious
nature of her malady. By God's mercy it was not
attended with much suffering ; so that she was able
to tell her friends as in the foregoing letter, and
perhaps sometimes to persuade herself that, except-
ing want of strength, she was ' otherwise very well ;'
but the progress of the disease became more and
more manifest as the year advanced. The usual
walk was at first shortened, and then discontinued ;
and air was sought in a donkey-carriage. Gradually,
too, her habits of activity within the house ceased,
and she was obliged to lie down much. The sitting-
room contained only one sofa, which was fre-
quently occupied by her mother, who was more than
seventy years old. Jane would never use it, even in
her mother's absence ; but she contrived a sort of
couch for herself with two or three chairs, and was
pleased to say that this arrangement was more com-
fortable to her than a real sofa. Her reasons for this
might have been left to be guessed, but for the im-
portunities of a little niece, which obliged her to
explain that if she herself had shown any inclination
to use the sofa, her mother might have scrupled
being on it so much as was good for her.

Jane Austen. 157

It is certain, however, that the mind did not share
in this decay of the bodily strength. ' Persuasion '
was not finished before the middle of August in that
year; and the manner in which it was then com-
pleted affords proof that neither the critical nor the
creative powers of the author were at all impaired.
The book had been brought to an end in July ; and
the re-engagement of the hero and heroine effected
in a totally different manner in a scene laid at Ad-
miral Croft's lodgings. But her performance did not
satisfy her. She thought it tame and flat, and was
desirous of producing something better. This weighed
upon her mind, the more so probably on account of
the weak state of her health ; so that one night she
retired to rest in very low spirits. But such depres-
sion was little in accordance with her nature, and
was soon shaken off. The next morning she awoke
to more cheerful views and brighter inspirations : the
sense of power revived ; and imagination resumed its
course. She cancelled the condemned chapter, and
wrote two others, entirely different, in its stead. The
result is that we possess the visit of the Musgrove
party to Bath ; the crowded and animated scenes at
the White Hart Hotel ; and the charming conversa-
tion between Capt. Harville and Anne Elliot, over-
heard by Capt. Wentworth, by which the two faithful
lovers were at last led to understand each other's
feelings. The tenth and eleventh chapters of ' Per-
suasion ' then, rather than the actual winding-up of the
story, contain the latest of her printed compositions,
her last contribution to the entertainment of the

158 A Memoir of

public. Perhaps it may be thought that she has
seldom written anything more brilliant; and that,
independent of the original manner in which the
denouement is brought about, the pictures of Charles
Musgrove's goodnatured boyishness and of his wife's
jealous selfishness would have been incomplete without
these finishing strokes. The cancelled chapter exists
in manuscript. It is certainly inferior to the two
which were substituted for it : but it was such as
some writers and some readers might have been con-
tented with ; and it contained touches which scarcely
any other hand could have given, the suppression of
which may be almost a matter of regret*

The following letter was addressed to her friend
Miss Bigg, then staying at Streatham with her
sister, the wife of the Reverend Herbert Hill, uncle
of Robert Southey. It appears to have been written
three days before she began her last work, which will
be noticed in another chapter ; and shows that she
was not at that time aware of the serious nature of
her malady : —

' Chawton, January 24, 181 7.

' My DEAR ALETHEA, — I think it time there
should be a little writing between us, though I be-
lieve the epistolary debt is on yotcr side, and I hope
this will find all the Streatham party well, neither
carried away by the flood, nor rheumatic through
the damps. Such mild weather is, you know, de-

* This cancelled chapter is now printed, in compliance with the
requests addressed to me from several quarters.

Jane A usteii. 159

lightful to us, and though we have a great many
ponds, and a fine running stream through the mea-
dows on the other side of the road, it is nothing but
what beautifies us and does to talk of. / have cer-
tainly gained strength through the winter and am not
far from being well; and I think I understand my
own case now so much better than I did, as to be
able by care to keep off any serious return of illness.
I am convinced that bile is at the bottom of all I
have suffered, which makes it easy to know how to
treat myself. You will be glad to hear thus much of
me, I am sure. We have just had a few days' visit
from Edward, who brought us a good account of his
father, and the very circumstance of his coming at
all, of his father's being able to spare him, is itself a
good account. He grows still, and still improves in
appearance, at least in the estimation of his aunts,
who love him better and better, as they see the sweet
temper and warm affections of the boy confirmed in the
young man : I tried hard to persuade him that he must
have some message for William,* but in vain. . . .
This is not a time of year for donkey-carriages, and
our donkeys are necessarily having so long a run of
luxurious idleness that I suppose we shall find they
have forgotten much of their education when we use
them again. We do not use two at once however ;
don't imagine such excesses. . . Our own new clergy-
man t is expected here very soon, perhaps in time to

* Miss Bigg's nephew, the present Sir William Heathcote, of
Hursley.

*T Her brother Henry, who had been ordained late in life.

160 A Memoir of

assist Mr. Papillon on Sunday. I shall be very glad
when the first hearing is over. It will be a nervous
hour for our pew, though we hear that he acquits him-
self with as much ease and collectedness, as if he had
been used to it all his life. We have no chance we
know of seeing you between Streatham and Win-
chester: you go the other road and are engaged to
two or three houses ; if there should be any change,
however, you know how welcome you would be. . . .
We have been reading the " Poet's Pilgrimage to
Waterloo," and generally with much approbation.
Nothing will please all the world, you know ; but
parts of it suit me better than much that he has
written before. The opening — the proem I believe
he calls it — is very beautiful. Poor man ! one can-
not but grieve for the loss of the son so fondly de-
scribed. Has he at all recovered it ? What do Mr.
and Mrs. Hill know about his present state ?
< Yours aff*

1 J. Austen.

' The real object of this letter is to ask you for a
receipt, but I thought it genteel not to let it appear
early. We remember some excellent orange wine at
Manydown, made from Seville oranges, entirely or
chiefly. I should be very much obliged to you for
the receipt, if you can command it within a few
weeks.'

On the day before, January 23rd, she had written
to her niece in the same hopeful tone : ' I feel myself
getting stronger than I was, and can so perfectly walk

Jane Austen. i6r

to Alton, or back again without fatigue, that I hope
to be able to do both when summer comes.'

Alas ! summer came to her only on her death-
bed. March 17th is the last date to be found in the
manuscript on which she was engaged; and as the
watch of the drowned man indicates the time of his
death, so does this final date seem to fix the period
when her mind could no longer pursue its accustomed
course.

And here I cannot do better than quote the words
of the niece to whose private records of her aunt's
life and character I have been so often indebted : —
* I do not know how early the alarming symptoms of
her malady came on. It was in the following March
that I had the first idea of her being seriously ill. It
had been settled that about the end of that month, or
the beginning of April, I should spend a few days at
Chawton, in the absence of my father and mother,
who were just then engaged with Mrs. Leigh Perrot in
arranging her late husband's affairs ; but Aunt Jane
became too ill to have me in the house, and so I
went instead to my sister Mrs. Lefroy at Wyards*.
The next day we walked over to Chawton to make
enquiries after our aunt. She was then keeping her
room, but said she would see us, and we went up to
her. She was in her dressing gown, and was sitting
quite like an invalid in an arm-chair, but she got up
and kindly greeted us, and then, pointing to seats
which had been arranged for us by the fire, she said,
" There is a chair for the married lady, and a little

M

1 62 A Memoir of

stool for you, Caroline." * It is strange, but those
trifling words were the last of hers that I can re-
member, for I retain no recollection of what was said
by anyone in the conversation that ensued. I was
struck by the alteration in herself. She was very
pale, her voice was weak and low, and there was
about her a general appearance of debility and suffer-
ing ; but I have been told that she never had much
acute pain. She was not equal to the exertion of
talking to us, and our visit to the sick room was a
very short one, Aunt Cassandra soon taking us away.
I do not suppose we stayed a quarter of an hour ; and
I never saw Aunt Jane again.'

In May 1817 she was persuaded to remove to
Winchester, for the sake of medical advice from Mr.
Lyford. The Lyfords have, for some generations,
maintained a high character in Winchester for medical
skill, and the Mr. Lyford of that day was a man of
more than provincial reputation, in whom great
London practitioners expressed confidence. Mr.
Lyford spoke encouragingly. It was not, of course,
his business to extinguish hope in his patient, but I
believe that he had, from the first, very little expec-
tation of a permanent cure. All that was gained by
the removal from home was the satisfaction of having
done the best that could be done, together with such
alleviations of suffering as superior medical skill could
afford.

Jane and her sister Cassandra took lodgings in
College Street. They had two kind friends living

* The writer was at that time under twelve years old.

Jane Austen. 163

in the Close, Mrs. Heathcote and Miss Bigg, the
mother and aunt of the present Sir Wm. Heathcote
of Hursley, between whose family and ours a close
friendship has existed for several generations. These
friends did all that they could to promote the comfort
of the sisters, during that sad sojourn in Winchester,
both by their society, and by supplying those little
conveniences in which a lodging-house was likely to
be deficient. It was shortly after settling in these
lodgings that she wrote to a nephew the following
characteristic letter, no longer, alas ! in her former
strong, clear hand.

'Mrs. David's, College St., Winton,

Tuesday, May 27th.

' There is no better way, my dearest E., of thank-
ing you for your affectionate concern for me during
my illness than by telling you myself, as soon as
possible, that I continue to get better. I will not
boast of my handwriting ; neither that nor my face
have yet recovered their proper beauty, but in other
respects I gain strength very fast. I am now out of
bed from 9 in the morning to 10 at night : upon
the sofa, it is true, but I eat my meals with aunt
Cassandra in a rational way, and can employ myself,
and walk from one room to another. Mr. Lyford
says he will cure me, and if he fails, I shall draw up
a memorial and lay it before the Dean and Chapter,
and have no doubt of redress from that pious,
learned, and disinterested body. Our lodgings are
very comfortable. We have a neat little drawing-
room with a bow window overlooking Dr. Gabell's

164 A Memoir of

garden.* Thanks to the kindness of your father and
mother in sending me their carriage, my journey
hither on Saturday was performed with very little
fatigue, and had it been a fine day, I think I should
have felt none; but it distressed me to see uncle
Henry and Wm. Knight, who kindly attended us on
horseback, riding in the rain almost the whole way.
We expect a visit from them to-morrow, and hope
they will stay the night ; and on Thursday, which is
a confirmation and a holiday, we are to get Charles
out to breakfast We have had but one visit from
him> poor fellow, as he is in sick-room, but he hopes
to be out to-night. We see Mrs. Heathcote every
day, and William is to call upon us soon. God bless
you, my dear E. If ever you are ill, may you be
as tenderly nursed as I have been. May the same
blessed alleviations of anxious, sympathising friends
be yours : and may you possess, as I dare say you
will, the greatest blessing of all in the consciousness
of not being unworthy of their love. / could not
feel this.

1 Your very affec te Aunt,

< J. A.'

The following extract from a letter which has been
before printed, written soon after the former, breathes
the same spirit of humility and thankfulness : —

' I will only say further that my dearest sister, my
tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse, has not been

* It was the corner house in College Street, at the entrance to
Commoners.

Jane A listen. 165

made ill by her exertions. As to what I owe her,
and the anxious affection of all my beloved family
on this occasion, I can only cry over it, and pray
God to bless them more and more.'

Throughout her illness she was nursed by her
sister, often assisted by her sister-in-law, my mother.
Both were with her when she died. Two of her
brothers, who were clergymen, lived near enough to
Winchester to be in frequent attendance, and to ad-
minister the services suitable for a Christian's death-
bed. While she used the language of hope to her
correspondents, she was fully aware of her danger,
though not appalled by it It is true that there was
much to attach her to life. She was happy in her
family ; she was just beginning to feel confidence in
her own success ; and, no doubt, the exercise of her
great talents was an enjoyment in itself. We may
well believe that she would gladly have lived longer ;
but she was enabled without dismay or complaint to
prepare for death. She was a humble, believing
Christian. Her life had been passed in the perform-
ance of home duties, and the cultivation of domestic
affections, without any self-seeking or craving after
applause. She had always sought, as it were by
instinct, to promote the happiness of all who came
within her influence, and doubtless she had her re-
ward in the peace of mind which was granted her in
her last days. Her sweetness of temper never failed.
She was ever considerate and grateful to those who
attended on her. At times, when she felt rather
better, her playfulness of spirit revived, and she

1 66 A Memoir of

amused them even in their sadness. Once, when
she thought herself near her end, she said what she
imagined might be her last words to those around
her, and particularly thanked her sister-in-law for
being with her, saying: 'You have always been a
kind sister to me, Mary/ When the end at last
came, she sank rapidly, and on being asked by her
attendants whether there was anything that she
wanted, her reply was, ' Nothing but death! These
were her last words. In quietness and peace she
breathed her last on the morning of July 18, 1817.

On the 24th of that month she was buried in
Winchester Cathedral, near the centre of the north
aisle, almost opposite to the beautiful chantry tomb
of William of Wykeham, A large slab of black
marble in the pavement marks the place. Her own
family only attended the funeral. Her sister re-
turned to her desolated home, there to devote herself,
for ten years, to the care of her aged mother ; and to
live much on the memory of her lost sister, till called
many years later to rejoin her. Her brothers went
back sorrowing to their several homes. They were
very fond and very proud of her. They were at-
tached to her by her talents, her virtues, and her
engaging manners ; and each loved afterwards to
fancy a resemblance in some niece or daughter of
his own to the dear sister Jane, whose perfect equal
they yet never expected to see.

Jane Austen. 167

CHAPTER XII.

The Cancelled Chapter {Chap. X.) of '« Persuasion.'

WITH all this knowledge of Mr. Elliot and this
authority to impart it, Anne left Westgate Buildings,
her mind deeply busy in revolving what - she had
heard, feeling, thinking, recalling, and foreseeing
everything, shocked at Mr. Elliot, sighing over future
Kellynch, and pained for Lady Russell, whose con-
fidence in him had been entire. The embarrassment
which must be felt from this hour in his presence !
How to behave to him ? How to get rid of him ?
What to do by any of the party at home ? Where
to be blind ? Where to be active ? It was altogether
a confusion of images and doubts — a perplexity, an
agitation which she could not see the end of. And
she was in Gay Street, and still so much engrossed
that she started on being addressed by Admiral
Croft, as if he were a person unlikely to be met
there. It was within a few steps of his own door.

' You are going to call upon my wife/ said he. ' She
will be very glad to see you.'

Anne denied it.

' No ! she really had not time, she was in her way
home ;' but while she spoke the Admiral had stepped
back and knocked at the door, calling out,

1 68 A Memoir of

'Yes, yes ; do go in ; she is all alone ; go in and rest
yourself/

Anne felt so little disposed at this time to be in
company of any sort, that it vexed her to be thus
constrained, but she was obliged to stop.

1 Since you are so very kind/ said she, ' I will just
ask Mrs. Croft how she does, but I really cannot stay
five minutes. You are sure she is quite alone ? '

The possibility of Captain Wentworth had oc-
curred ; and most fearfully anxious was she to be
assured — either that he was within, or that he was
not — which might have been a question.

' Oh yes ! quite alone, nobody but her mantua-
maker with her, and they have been shut up together
this half-hour, so it must be over soon/

1 Her mantuamaker ! Then I am sure my calling
now would be most inconvenient. Indeed you must
allow me to leave my card and be so good as to
explain it afterwards to Mrs. Croft/

' No, no, not at all — not at all — she will be very
happy to see you. Mind, I will not swear that she
has not something particular to say to you, but that
will all come out in the right place. I give no hints.
Why, Miss Elliot, we begin to hear strange things of
you (smiling in her face). But you have not much
the look of it, as grave as a little judge !'

Anne blushed.

' Aye, aye, that will do now, it is all right. I
thought we were not mistaken.'

She was left to guess at the direction of his sus-
picions ; the first wild idea had been of some dis-

Jane Austen. 169

closure from his brother-in-law, but she was ashamed
the next moment, and felt how far more probable it
was that he should be meaning Mr. Elliot. The door
was opened, and the man evidently beginning to deny
his mistress, when the sight of his master stopped
him. The Admiral enjoyed the joke exceedingly.
Anne thought his triumph over Stephen rather too
long. At last, however, he was able to invite her up
stairs, and stepping before her said, ' I will just go
up with you myself and show you in. I cannot stay
because I must go to the Post-Office, but if you will
only sit down for five minutes I am sure Sophy will
come, and you will find nobody to disturb you — there
is nobody but Frederick here/ opening the door as
he spoke. Such a person to be passed over as no-
body to her ! After being allowed to feel quite
secure, indifferent, at her ease, to have it burst on her
that she was to be the next moment in the same
room with him ! No time for recollection ! for plan-
ning behaviour or regulating manners ! There was
time only to turn pale before she had passed through
the door, and met the astonished eyes of Captain
Wentworth, who was sitting by the fire, pretending
to read, and prepared for no greater surprise than
the Admiral's hasty return.

Equally unexpected was the meeting on each side.
There was nothing to be done, however, but to stifle
feelings, and to be quietly polite, and the Admiral
was too much on the alert to leave any troublesome
pause. He repeated again what he had said before
about his wife and everybody, insisted on Anne's

1 70 A Memoir of

sitting down and being perfectly comfortable — was
sorry he must leave her himself, but was sure Mrs.
Croft would be down very soon, and would go up-
stairs and give her notice directly. Anne was sitting
down, but now she arose, again to entreat him not to
interrupt Mrs. Croft and re-urge the wish of going
away and calling another time. But the Admiral
would not hear of it ; and if she did not return to the
charge with unconquerable perseverance, or did not
with a more passive determination walk quietly out
of the room (as . certainly she might have done),
may she not be pardoned ? If she had no horror of
a few minutes' tete-a-tete with Captain Wentworth,
may she not be pardoned for not wishing to give
him the idea that she had ? She reseated herself,
and the Admiral took leave, but on reaching the
door, said —

1 Frederick, a word with yoit if you please.'

Captain Wentworth went to him, and instantly,
before they were well out of the room, the Admiral
continued —

'As I am going to leave you together, it is but
fair I should give you something to talk of ; and so,
if you please — - — '

Here the door was very firmly closed, she could
guess by which of the two — and she lost entirely
what immediately followed, but it was impossible
for her not to distinguish parts of the rest, for the
Admiral, on the strength of the door's being shut,
was speaking without any management of voice,
though she could hear his companion trying to check

Jane A tcsten. iyi

him. She could not doubt their being speaking of
her. She heard her own name and Kellynch re-
peatedly. She was very much disturbed. She
knew not what to do, or what to expect, and among
other agonies felt the possibility of Captain Went-
worth's not returning into the room at all, which,
after her consenting to stay, would have been — too
bad for language. They seemed to be talking of
the Admiral's lease of Kellynch. She heard him
say something of the lease being signed — or not
signed — that was not likely to be a very agitating
subject, but then followed —

' I hate to be at an uncertainty. I must know at
once. Sophy thinks the same.'

Then in a lower tone Captain Wentworth seemed
remonstrating, wanting to be excused, wanting to put
something off.

' Phoo, phoo/ answered the Admiral, ' now is the
time ; if you will not speak, I will stop and speak
myself/

' Very well, sir, very well, sir/ followed with some
impatience from his companion, opening the door as
he spoke —

' You will then, you promise you will ? ' replied
the Admiral in all the power of his natural voice,
unbroken even by one thin door.

' Yes, sir, yes/ And the Admiral was hastily left,
the door was closed, and the moment arrived in which
Anne was alone with Captain Wentworth.

She could not attempt to see how he looked, but
he walked immediately to a window as if irresolute

172 A Memoir of

and embarrassed, and for about the space of five
seconds she repented what she had done — censured
it as unwise, blushed over it as indelicate. She
longed to be able to speak of the weather or the
concert, but could only compass the relief of taking a
newspaper in her hand. The distressing pause was
over, however ; he turned round in half a minute, and
coming towards the table where she sat, said in a
voice of effort and constraint —

'You must have heard too much already, Madam,
to be in any doubt of my having promised Admiral
Croft to speak to you on a particular subject, and
this conviction determines me to do so, however re-
pugnant to my — to all my sense of propriety to be
taking so great a liberty ! You will acquit me of
impertinence I trust, by considering me as speaking
only for another, and speaking by necessity ; and the
Admiral is a man who can never be thought imperti-
nent by one who knows him as you do. His inten-
tions are always the kindest and the best, and you
will perceive he is actuated by none other in the
application which I am now, with — with very pe-
culiar feelings — obliged to make.' He stopped, but
merely to recover breath, not seeming to expect any
answer. Anne listened as if her life depended on the
issue of his speech. He proceeded with a forced
alacrity : —

'The Admiral, Madam, was this morning confi-
dently informed that you were — upon my soul, I am
quite at a loss, ashamed (breathing and speaking
quickly) — the awkwardness of giving information of

Jane Austen. 173

this kind to one of the parties — you can be at no loss
to understand me. It was very confidently said that
Mr. Elliot — that everything was settled in the family
for a union between Mr. Elliot and yourself. It was
added that you were to live at Kellynch — that
Kellynch was to be given up. This the Admiral
knew could not be correct. But it occurred to
him that it might be the wish of the parties. And
my commission from him, Madam, is to say, that
if the family wish is such, his lease of Kellynch
shall be cancelled, and he and my sister will provide
themselves with another home, without imagining
themselves to be doing anything which under similar
circumstances would not be done for them. This is
all, Madam. A very few words in reply from you
will be sufficient. That / should be the person
commissioned on this subject is extraordinary ! and
believe me, Madam, it is no less painful. A very
few words, however, will put an end to the awkward-
ness and distress we may both be feeling/

Anne spoke a word or two, but they were unintel-
ligible ; and before she could command herself, he
added, 'If you will only tell me that the Admiral
may address a line to Sir Walter, it will be enough.
Pronounce only the words, he may, and I shall imme-
diately follow him with your message/

1 No, Sir,' said Anne ; ' there is no message. You
are misin — the Admiral is misinformed. I do justice
to the kindness of his intentions, but he is quite mis-
taken. There is no truth in any such report/

He was a moment silent. She turned her eyes

174 A Memoir of

towards him for the first time since his re-entering the
room. His colour was varying, and he was looking
at her with all the power and keenness which she
believed no other eyes than his possessed.

' No truth in any such report?' he repeated. 'No
truth in any part of it V

' None.'

He had been standing by a chair, enjoying the
relief of leaning on it, or of playing with it. He now
sat down, drew it a little nearer to her, and looked
with an expression which had something more than
penetration in it — something softer. Her countenance
did not discourage. It was a silent but a very power-
ful dialogue ; on his supplication, on hers acceptance.
Still a little nearer, and a hand taken and pressed ;
and ' Anne, my own dear Anne ! ' bursting forth in all
the fulness of exquisite feeling, — and all suspense and
indecision were over. They were re-united. They
were restored to all that had been lost. They were
carried back to the past with only an increase of at-
tachment and confidence, and only such a flutter of
present delight as made them little fit for the inter-
ruption of Mrs. Croft when she joined them not long
afterwards. She, probably, in the observations of the
next ten minutes saw something to suspect ; and
though it was hardly possible for a woman of her
description to wish the mantuamaker had imprisoned
her longer, she might be very likely wishing for some
excuse to run about the house, some storm to break
the windows above, or a summons to the Admiral's
shoemaker below. Fortune favoured them all, how-

Jane Austen. 175

ever, in another way, in a gentle, steady rain, just hap-
pily set in as the Admiral returned and Anne rose to
go. She was earnestly invited to stay dinner. A
note was despatched to Camden Place, and she staid —
staid till ten at night ; and during that time the hus-
band and wife, either by the wife's contrivance, or by
simply going on in their usual way, were frequently
out of the room together — gone upstairs to hear a
noise, or downstairs to settle their accounts, or upon
the landing to trim the lamp. And these precious
moments were turned to so good an account that all the
most anxious feelings of the past were gone through.
Before they parted at night, Anne had the felicity
of being assured that in the first place (so far from
being altered for the worse), she had gained inexpres-
sibly in personal loveliness ; and that as to character,
hers was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself,
maintaining the just medium of fortitude and gentle-
ness — that he had never ceased to love and prefer
her, though it had been only at Uppercross that he
had learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme that
he had begun to understand his own*feelings ; that at
Lyme he had received lessons of more than one kind —
the passing admiration of Mr. Elliot had at least
roused him, and the scene on the Cobb, and at Captain
Harville's, had fixed her superiority. In his preced-
ing attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove
(the attempts of anger and pique), he protested that
he had continually felt the impossibility of really
caring for Louisa, though till that day, till the leisure
for reflection which followed it, he had not under-

176 A Memoir of

stood the perfect excellence of the mind with which
Louisa's could so ill bear comparison ; or the perfect,
the unrivalled hold it possessed over his own. There
he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of
principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the
darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a col-
lected mind ; there he had seen everything to exalt in
his estimation the woman he had lost, and there had
begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of
resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain
her when thrown in his way. From that period to the
present had his penance been the most severe. He
had no sooner been free from the horror and remorse
attending the first few days of Louisa's accident, no
sooner had begun to feel himself alive again, than he
had begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.
He found that he was considered by his friend Har-
ville an engaged man. The Harvilles entertained
not a doubt of a mutual attachment between him and
Louisa; and though this to a degree was contradicted
instantly, it yet made him feel that perhaps by her
family, by everybody, by Jierself even, the same idea
might be held, and that he was not free in honour,
though if such were to be the conclusion, too free alas !
in heart. He had never thought justly on this sub-
ject before, and he had not sufficiently considered
that his excessive intimacy at Uppercross must have
its danger of ill consequence in. many ways ; and that
while trying whether he could attach himself to either
of the girls, he might be exciting unpleasant reports
if not raising unrequited regard.

Jane Austen. 177

He found too late that he had entangled himself,
and that precisely as he became thoroughly satisfied
of his not carmg for Louisa at all, he must regard
himself as bound to her if her feelings for him were
what the Harvilles supposed. It determined him to
leave Lyme, and await her perfect recovery elsewhere.
He would gladly weaken by any fair means what-
ever sentiment or speculations concerning them might
exist; and he went therefore into Shropshire, meaning
after a while to return to the Crofts at Kellynch, and
act as he found requisite.

He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the
blindness of his own pride and the blunders of his
own calculations, till at once released from Louisa
by the astonishing felicity of her engagement with
Benwick.

Bath — Bath had instantly followed in thought, and
not long after in fact. To Bath — to arrive with hope,
to be torn by jealousy at the first sight of Mr. Elliot ;
to experience all the changes of each at the concert ;
to be miserable by the morning's circumstantial re-
port, to be now more happy than language could ex-
press, or any heart but his own be capable of.

He was very eager and very delightful in the de-
scription of what he had felt at the concert ; the evening
seemed to have been made up of exquisite moments.
The moment of her stepping forward in the octagon
room to speak to him, the moment of Mr. Elliot's
appearing and tearing her away, and one or two sub-
sequent moments, marked by returning hope or in-
creasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.

N

178 A Memoir of

' To see you/ cried he, ' in the midst of those who
could not be my well-wishers; to see your cousin
close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the
horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match ! To
consider it as the certain wish of every being who
could hope to influence you ! Even if your own feel-
ings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what
powerful support would be his ! Was it not enough
to make the fool of me which I appeared ? How
could I look on without agony ? Was not the very
sight of the friend who sat behind you ; was not the
recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her
influence, the indelible, immovable impression of what
persuasion had once done — was it not all against
me?'

' You should have distinguished/ replied Anne.
* You should not have suspected me now ; the case so
different, and my age so different. If I was wrong in
yielding to persuasion once, remember it was to per-
suasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk.
When I yielded, I thought it was to duty ; but no
duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a man
indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred,
and all duty violated.'

* Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus/ he re-
plied ; ' but I could not. I could not derive benefit
from the late knowledge I had acquired of your cha-
racter. I could not bring it into play ; it was over-
whelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I
had been smarting under year after year. I could
think of you only as one who had yielded, who had

Jane Austen, 179

given me up, who had been influenced by anyone
rather than by me. I saw you with the very person
who had guided you in that year of misery. I had
no reason to believe her of less authority now. The
force of habit was to be added.'

' I should have thought/ said Anne, ' that my man-
ner to yourself might have spared you much or all
of this/

' No, no ! Your manner might be only the ease
which your engagement to another man would give.
I left you in this belief; and yet — I was determined
to see you again. My spirits rallied with the morn-
ing, and I felt that I had still a motive for remaining
here. The Admiral's news, indeed, was a revulsion ;
since that moment I have been divided what to do,
and had it been confirmed, this would have been my
last day in Bath/

There was time for all this to pass, with such inter-
ruptions only as enhanced the charm of the commu-
nication, and Bath could hardly contain any other
two beings at once so rationally and so rapturously
happy as during that evening occupied the sofa of
Mrs. Croft's drawing-room in Gay Street.

Captain Wentworth had taken care to meet the
Admiral as he returned into the house, to satisfy him
as to Mr. Elliot and Kellynch ; and the delicacy of
the Admiral's good-nature kept him from saying
another word on the subject to Anne. He was quite
concerned lest he might have been giving her pain by
touching on a tender part — who could say ? She
might be liking her cousin better than he liked her ;

i8o A Memoir of

and, upon recollection, if they had been to marry at
all, why should they have waited so long ? When the
evening closed, it is probable that the Admiral re-
ceived some new ideas from his wife, whose particu-
larly friendly manner in parting with her gave Anne
the gratifying persuasion of her seeing and approving.
It had been such a day to Anne ; the hours which
had passed since her leaving Camden Place had done
so much ! She was almost bewildered — almost too
happy in looking back. It was necessary to sit up
half the night, and lie awake the remainder, to com-
prehend with composure her present state, and pay
for the overplus of bliss by headache and fatigue.

Then follows Chapter XL, i.e. XII. in the pub-
lished book and at the end is written —

Finis i July 18, 1816.

Jane A us ten. 1 8 1

CHAPTER XIII.

The last Work.

Jane Austen was taken from us: how much un-
exhausted talent perished with her, how largely she
might yet have contributed to the entertainment of
her readers, if her life had been prolonged, cannot
be known ; but it is certain that the mine at which
she had so long laboured was not worked out, and
that she was still diligently employed in collect-
ing fresh materials from it. ' Persuasion ' had been
finished in August 1816; some time was probably
given to correcting it for the press ; but on the 27th
of the following January, according to the date on
her own manuscript, she began a new novel, and
worked at it up to the 17th of March. The chief
part of this manuscript is written in her usual firm
and neat hand, but some of the latter pages seem to
have been first traced in pencil, probably when she
was too weak to sit long at her desk, and written
over in ink afterwards. The quantity produced does
not indicate any decline of power or industry, for in
those seven weeks twelve chapters had been com-
pleted. It is more difficult to judge of the quality
of a work so little advanced. It had received no
name ; there was scarcely any indication what the

1 82 A Memoir of

course of the story was to be, nor was any heroine
yet perceptible, who, like Fanny Price, or Anne
Elliot, might draw round her the sympathies of the
reader. Such an unfinished fragment cannot be pre-
sented to the public ; but I am persuaded that some
of Jane Austen's admirers will be glad to learn some-
thing about the latest creations which were forming
themselves in her mind ; and therefore, as some of
the principal characters were already sketched in
with a vigorous hand, I will try to give an idea of
them, illustrated by extracts from the work.

The scene is laid at Sanditon, a village on the
Sussex coast, just struggling into notoriety as a
bathing-place, under the patronage of the two prin-
cipal proprietors of the parish, Mr. Parker and Lady
Denham.

Mr. Parker was an amiable man, with more en-
thusiasm than judgment, whose somewhat shallow
mind overflowed with the one idea of the prosperity
of Sanditon, together with a jealous contempt of the
rival village of Brinshore, where a similar attempt
was going on. To the regret of his much-enduring
wife, he had left his family mansion, with all its an-
cestral comforts of gardens, shrubberies, and shelter,
situated in a valley some miles inland, and had built
a new residence — a Trafalgar House — on the bare
brow of the hill overlooking Sanditon and the sea,
exposed to every wind that blows ; but he will con-
fess to no discomforts, nor suffer his family to feel
any from the change. The following extract brings
him before the reader, mounted on his hobby : —

Jane Austen. 183

' He wanted to secure the promise of a visit, and
to get as many of the family as his own house would
hold to follow him to Sanditon as soon as possible ;
and, healthy as all the Heywoods undeniably were,
he foresaw that every one of them would be bene-
fitted by the sea. He held it indeed as certain that
no person, however upheld for the present by for-
tuitous aids of exercise and spirit in a semblance of
health, could be really in a state of secure and per-
manent health without spending at least six weeks
by the sea every year. The sea air and sea-bathing
together were nearly infallible ; one or other of them
being a match for every disorder of the stomach, the
lungs, or the blood. They were anti-spasmodic, anti-
pulmonary, anti-bilious, and anti-rheumatic. Nobody
could catch cold by the sea ; nobody wanted appe-
tite by the sea; nobody wanted spirits; nobody
wanted strength. They were healing, softening, re-
laxing, fortifying, and bracing, seemingly just as was
wanted ; sometimes one, sometimes the other. If
the sea breeze failed, the sea-bath was the certain
corrective ; and when bathing disagreed, the sea
breeze was evidently designed by nature for the cure.
His eloquence, however, could not prevail. Mr. and
Mrs. Heywood never left home The mainten-
ance, education, and fitting out of fourteen children
demanded a very quiet, settled, careful course of life ;
and obliged them to be stationary and healthy at
Willingden. What prudence had at first enjoined
was now rendered pleasant by habit. They never
left home, and they had a gratification in saying so.'

1 84 A Memoir of

Lady Denham's was a very different character.
She was a rich vulgar widow, with a sharp but narrow
mind, who cared for the prosperity of Sanditon only
so far as it might increase the value of her own
property. She is thus described : —

' Lady Denham had been a rich Miss Brereton,
born to wealth, but not to education. Her first
husband had been a Mr. Hollis, a man of consider-
able property in the country, of which a large share
of the parish of Sanditon, with manor and mansion-
house, formed a part. He had been an elderly man
when she married him ; her own age about thirty.
Her motives for such a match could be little under-
stood at the distance of forty years, but she had so
well nursed and pleased Mr. Hollis that at his death
he left her everything — all his estates, and all at her
disposal. After a widowhood of some years she had
been induced to marry again. The late Sir Harry
Denham, of Denham Park, in the neighbourhood of
Sanditon, succeeded in removing her and her large
income to his own domains ; but he could not suc-
ceed in the views of permanently enriching his family
which were attributed to him. She had been too
wary to put anything out of her own power, and
when, on Sir Harry's death, she returned again to
her own house at Sanditon, she was said to have
made this boast, "that though she had got nothing
but her title from the family, yet* she had give?i
nothing for it." For the title it was to be supposed
that she married.

1 Lady Denham was indeed a great lady, beyond the

Jane Austen, 185

common wants of society ; for she had many thousands
a year to bequeath, and three distinct sets of people
to be courted by : — her own relations, who might very
reasonably wish for her original thirty thousand pounds
among them ; the legal heirs of Mr. Hollis, who might
hope to be more indebted to her sense of justice than
he had allowed them to be to his ; and those members
of the Denham family for whom her second husband
had hoped to make a good bargain. By all these, or
by branches of them, she had, no doubt, been long
and still continued to be well attacked ; and of these
three divisions Mr. Parker did not hesitate to say that
Mr. Hollis's kindred were the- least in favour, and Sir
Harry Denham's the most. The former, he believed,
had done themselves irremediable harm by expres-
sions of very unwise resentment at the time of Mr.
Hollis's death: the latter, to the advantage of being
the remnant of a connection which she certainly
valued, joined those of having been known to her
from their childhood, and of being always at hand to
pursue their interests by seasonable attentions. But
another claimant was now to be taken into account :
a young female relation whom Lady Denham had
been induced to receive into her family. After having
always protested against any such addition, and often
enjoyed the repeated defeat she had given to every
attempt of her own relations to introduce 'this young
lady, or that young lady,' as a companion at Sanditon
House, she had brought back with her from London
last Michaelmas a Miss Clara Brereton, who bid fair
to vie in favour with Sir Edward Denham, and to

1 86 A Memoir of

secure for herself and her family that share of the
accumulated property which they had certainly the
best right to inherit/

Lady Denham's character comes out in a conversa-
tion which takes place at Mr. Parker's tea-table.

* The conversation turned entirely upon Sanditon, its
present number of visitants, and the chances of a good
season. It was evident that Lady Denham had more
anxiety, more fears of loss than her coadjutor. She
wanted to have the place fill faster, and seemed to
have many harassing apprehensions of the lodgings
being in some instances underlet. To a report that a
large boarding-school was expected she replies, ' Ah,
well, no harm in that. They will stay their six weeks,
and out of such a number who knows but some may
be consumptive, and want asses' milk; and I have two
milch asses at this very time. But perhaps the little
Misses may hurt the furniture. I hope they will have
a good sharp governess to look after them.' But she
wholly disapproved of Mr. Parker's wish to secure the
residence of a medical man amongst them. 'Why,
what should we do with a doctor here ? It would only
be encouraging our servants and the poor to fancy
themselves ill, if there was a doctor at hand. Oh,
pray let us have none of that tribe at Sanditon : we
go on very well as we are. There is the sea, and the
downs, and my milch asses: and I have told Mrs.
Whitby that if anybody enquires for a chamber horse,
they may be supplied at a fair rate (poor Mr. Hollis's
chamber horse, as good as new) ; and what can people
want more ? I have lived seventy good years in the

Jane A us ten, 187

world, and never took physic, except twice: and never
saw the face of a doctor in all my life on my own
account; and I really believe if my poor dear Sir
Harry had never seen one neither, he would have been
alive now. Ten fees, one after another, did the men
take who sent him out of the world. I beseech you,
Mr. Parker, no doctors here/

This lady's character comes out more strongly in a
conversation with Mr. Parker's guest, Miss Charlotte
Heywood. Sir Edward Denham with his sister
Esther and Clara Brereton have just, left them.

' Charlotte accepted an invitation from Lady Den-
ham to remain with her on the terrace, when the others
adjourned to the library. Lady Denham, like a true
great lady, talked, and talked only of her own
concerns, and Charlotte listened. Taking hold of
Charlotte's arm with the ease of one who felt that
any notice from her was a favour, and communicative
from the same sense of importance, or from a natural
love of talking, she immediately said in a tone of
great satisfaction, and with a look of arch sagacity : —

' Miss Esther wants me to invite her and her brother
to spend a week with me at Sanditon House, as I did
last summer, but I shan't. She has been trying to get
round me every way with her praise of this and her
praise of that ; but I saw what she was about. I saw
through it all. I am not very easily taken in, my dear/

Charlotte could think of nothing more harmless to
be said than the simple enquiry of, ' Sir Edward and
Miss Denham?'

'Yes, my dear; my young folks, as I call them^

A Memoir of

sometimes: for I take them very much by the hand,
and had them with me last summer, about this time,
for a week — from Monday to Monday — and very
delighted and thankful they were. For they are very
good young people, my dear. I would not have you
think that I only notice them for poor dear Sir Harry's
sake. No, no; they are very deserving themselves,
or, trust me, they would not be so much in my
company. I am not the woman to help anybody
blindfold. I always take care to know what I am
about, and who I have to deal with before I stir a
finger. I do not think I was ever overreached in my
life ; and that is a good deal for a woman to say that
has been twice married. Poor dear Sir Harry (between
ourselves) thought at first to have got more, but (with
a bit of a sigh) he is gone, and we must not find fault
with the dead. Nobody could live happier together
than us : and he was a very honourable man, quite
the gentleman, of ancient family ; and when he died I
gave Sir Edward his gold watch.'

This was said with a look at her companion which
implied its right to produce a great impression ; and
seeing no rapturous astonishment in Charlotte's coun-
tenance, she added quickly,

'He did not bequeath it to his nephew, my dear;
it was no bequest ; it was not in the will. He only
told me, and that but once, that he should wish his
nephew to have his watch ; but it need not have been
binding, if I had not chose it.'

' Very kind indeed, very handsome ! ' said Char-
lotte, absolutely forced to affect admiration.

Jane A listen. 1 89

* Yes, my dear ; and it is not the only kind thing I
have done by him. I have been a very liberal friend
to Sir Edward ; and, poor young man, he needs it
bad enough. For, though I am only the dowager,
my dear, and he is the heir, things do not stand
between us in the way they usually do between those
two parties. Not a shilling do I receive from the
Denham estate. Sir Edward has no payments to
make me. He don't stand uppermost, believe me ; it
is / that help him!

1 Indeed ! he is a very fine young man, and par-
ticularly elegant in his address/

This was said chiefly for the sake of saying some-
thing ; but Charlotte directly saw that it was laying
her open to suspicion, by Lady Denham's giving a
shrewd glance at her, and replying,

1 Yes, yes ; he's very well to look at ; and it is to
be hoped that somebody of large fortune will think
so ; for Sir Edward must marry for money. He and
I often talk that matter over. A handsome young
man like him will go smirking and smiling about,
and paying girls compliments, but he knows he must
marry for money. And Sir Edward is a very steady
young man, in the main, and has got very good
notions.'

1 Sir Edward Denham/ said Charlotte, ' with such
personal advantages, may be almost sure of getting a
woman of fortune, if he chooses it/

This glorious sentiment seemed quite to remove
suspicion,

' Aye, my dear, that is very sensibly said ; and

190 A Memoir of

if we could but get a young heiress to Sanditon !
But heiresses are monstrous scarce ! I do not think
we have had an heiress here, nor even a Co., since
Sanditon has been a public place. Families come
after families, but, as far as I can learn, it is not one
in a hundred of them that have any real property,
landed or funded. An income, perhaps, but no pro-
perty. Clergymen, may be, or lawyers from town,
or half-pay officers, or widows with only a jointure ;
and what good can such people do to anybody?
Except just as they take our empty houses, and
(between ourselves) I think they are great fools for
not staying at home. Now, if we could get a young
heiress to be sent here for her health, and, as soon as
she got well, have her fall in love with Sir Edward !
And Miss Esther must marry somebody of fortune,
too. She must get a rich husband. Ah! young
ladies that have no money are very much to be
pitied/ After a short pause : * If Miss Esther thinks
to talk me into inviting them to come and stay
at Sanditon House, she will find herself mistaken.
Matters are altered with me since last summer, you
know : I have Miss Clara with me now, which makes
a great difference. I should not choose to have my
two housemaids' time taken up all the morning in
dusting out bedrooms. They have Miss Clara's room
to put to rights, as well as mine, every day. If they
had hard work, they would want higher wages.'

Charlotte's feelings were divided between amuse-
ment and indignation. She kept her countenance,
and kept a civil silence ; but without attempting to

Jane Austen. 191

listen any longer, and only conscious that Lady
Denham was still talking in the same way, allowed
her own thoughts to form themselves into such
meditation as this : — ' She is thoroughly mean ; I had
no expectation of anything so bad. Mr. Parker spoke
too mildly of her. He is too kind-hearted to see
clearly, and their very connection misleads him. He
has persuaded her to engage in the same speculation,
and because they have so far the same object in
view, he fancies that she feels like him in other
things ; but she is very, very mean. I can see no
good in her. Poor Miss Brereton ! And it makes
everybody mean about her. This poor Sir Edward
and his sister! how far nature meant them to be
respectable I cannot tell ; but they are obliged to be
mean in their servility to her ; and I am mean, too,
in giving her my attention with the appearance of
coinciding with her. Thus it is when rich people are
sordid/

Mr. Parker has two unmarried sisters of singular
character. They live together ; Diana, the younger,
always takes the lead, and the elder follows in the
same track. It is their pleasure to fancy themselves
invalids to a degree and in a manner never expe-
rienced by others ; but, from a state of exquisite pain
and utter prostration, Diana Parker can always rise to
be officious in the concerns of all her acquaintance,
and to make incredible exertions where they are not
wanted.

It would seem that they must be always either
very busy for the good of others, or else extremely

192 A Memoir of

ill themselves. Some natural delicacy of constitu-
tion, in fact, with an unfortunate turn for medicine,
especially quack medicine, had given them an early
tendency at various times to various disorders. The
rest of their suffering was from their own fancy, the
love of distinction, and the love of the wonderful.
They had charitable hearts and many amiable feel-
ings ; but a spirit of restless activity, and the glory of
doing more than anybody else, had a share in every
exertion of benevolence, and there was vanity in all
they did, as well as in all they endured.

These peculiarities come out in the following letter
of Diana Parker to her brother : —

' My dear Tom, — We were much grieved at your
accident, and if you had not described yourself as
having fallen into such very good hands, I should have
been with you at all hazards the day after receipt
of your letter, though it found me suffering under a
more severe attack than usual of my old grievance,
spasmodic bile, and hardly able to crawl from my
bed to the sofa. But how were you treated ? Send
me more particulars in your next. If indeed a
simple sprain, as you denominate it, nothing would
have been so judicious as friction — friction by the
hand alone, supposing it could be applied imme-
diately. Two years ago I happened to be calling on
Mrs. Sheldon, when her coachman sprained his foot,
as he was cleaning the carriage, and could hardly
limp into the house ; but by the immediate use of
friction alone, steadily persevered in (I rubbed his

Jane Austen* 193

ancle with my own hands for four hours without
intermission), he was well in three days. . . . Pray
never run into peril again in looking for an apothe-
cary on our account ; for had you the most ex-
perienced man in his line settled at Sanditon, it
would be no recommendation to us. We have en-
tirely done with the whole medical tribe. We have
consulted physician after physician in vain, till we
are quite convinced that they can do nothing for us,
and that we must trust to our knowledge of our
own wretched constitutions for any relief; but if you
think it advisable for the interests of the place to get
a medical man there, I will undertake the com-
mission with pleasure, and have no doubt of succeed-
ing. I could soon put the necessary irons in the
fire. As for getting to Sanditon myself, it is an
impossibility. I grieve to say that I cannot attempt
it, but my feelings tell me too plainly that in my
present state the sea-air would probably be the death
of me ; and in truth I doubt whether Susan's nerves
would be equal to the effort. She has been suffer-
ing much from headache, and six leeches a day, for
ten days together, relieved her so little that we
thought it right to change our measures ; and being
convinced on examination that much of the evil lay
in her gums, I persuaded her to attack the disorder
there. She has accordingly had three teeth drawn,
and is decidedly better ; but her nerves are a good
deal deranged, she can only speak in a whisper, and
fainted away this morning on poor Arthur's trying to
suppress a cough.'

o

194 A Memoir of

Within a week of the date of this letter, in spite
of the impossibility of moving, and of the fatal effects
to be apprehended from the sea-air, Diana Parker
was at Sanditon with her sister. She had flattered
herself that by her own indefatigable exertions, and
by setting at work the agency of many friends, she
had induced two large families to take houses at
Sanditon. It was to expedite these politic views that
she came ; and though she met with some disappoint-
ment of her expectation, yet she did not suffer in
health.

Such were some of the dramatis persona, ready
dressed and prepared for their parts. They are at
least original and unlike any that the author had
produced before. The success of the piece must
have depended on the skill with which these parts
might be played ; but few will be inclined to dis-
trust the skill of one who had so often succeeded.
If the author had lived to complete her work, it is
probable that these personages might have grown
into as mature an individuality of character, and
have taken as permanent a place amongst our familiar
acquaintance, as Mr. Bennet, or John Thorp, Mary
Musgrove, or Aunt Norris herself.

Jane A listen. 195

CHAPTER XIV.

Postscript.

WHEN first I was asked to put together a memoir of
my aunt, I saw reasons for declining the attempt.
It was not only that, having passed the three score
years and ten usually allotted to man's strength,
and being unaccustomed to write for publication, I
might well distrust my ability to complete the work,
but that I also knew the extreme scantiness of the
materials out of which it must be constructed. The
grave closed over my aunt fifty-two years ago ; and
during that long period no idea of writing her life
had been entertained by any of her family. Her
nearest relatives, far from making provision for such
a purpose, had actually destroyed many of the letters
and papers by which it might have been facilitated.
They were influenced, I believe, partly by an ex-
treme dislike to publishing private details, and partly
by never having assumed that the world would take
so strong and abiding an interest in her works as to
claim her name as public property. It was therefore
necessary for me to draw upon recollections rather
than on written documents for my materials ; while
the subject itself supplied me with nothing striking

ig6 A Memoir of

or prominent with which to arrest the attention of
the reader. It has been said that the happiest in-
dividuals, like nations during their happiest periods,
have no history. In the case of my aunt, it was not
only that her course of life was unvaried, but that
her own disposition was remarkably calm and even.
There was in her nothing eccentric or angular; no
ruggedness of temper ; no singularity of manner ;
none of the morbid sensibility or exaggeration of
feeling, which not unfrequently accompanies great
talents, to be worked up into a picture. Hers was
a mind well balanced on a basis of good sense,
sweetened by an affectionate heart, and regulated by
fixed principles ; so that she was to be distinguished
from many other amiable and sensible women only
by that peculiar genius which shines out clearly
enough in her works, but of which a biographer can
make little use. The motive which at last induced
me to make the attempt is exactly expressed in the
passage prefixed to these pages. I thought that I
saw something to be done : knew of no one who
could do it but myself, and so was driven to the
enterprise. I am glad that I have been able to
finish my work. As a family record it can scarcely
fail to be interesting to those relatives who must
ever set a high value on their connection with Jane
Austen, and to them I especially dedicate it ; but as
I have been asked to do so, I also submit it to the
censure of the public, with all its faults both of
deficiency and redundancy. I know that its value in
their eyes must depend, not on any merits of its

Jane Austen. 197

own, but on the degree of estimation in which my
aunt's works may still be held ; and indeed I shall
esteem it one of the strongest testimonies ever borne
to her talents, if for her sake an interest can be taken
in so poor a sketch as I have been able to draw.

Bray Vicarage:
Sept. 7, 1869.

PREFACE.

I HAVE lately received permission to print the
following tale from the author's niece, Lady Knatch-
bull, of Provender, in Kent, to whom the autograph
copy was given. I am not able to ascertain when it
was composed. Her family have always believed it
to be an early production. Perhaps she wrote it as
an experiment in conducting a story by means of
letters. It was not, however, her only attempt of
that kind; for 'Sense and Sensibility ' was first
written in letters ; but as she afterwards re-wrote one
of these works and never published the other, it is
probable that she was not quite satisfied with the
result. The tale itself is scarcely one on which a
literary reputation could have been founded : but
though, like some plants, it may be too slight to
stand alone, it may, perhaps, be supported by the
strength of her more firmly rooted works. At any
rate, it cannot diminish Jane Austen's reputation as
a writer ; for even if it should be judged unworthy of
the publicity now given to it, the censure must fall on
him who has put it forth, not on her who kept it
locked up in her desk.

LADY SUSAN.

i

\

I.

Lady Susan Vernon to Mr. Vernon.

Langford, Dec.

Y dear Brother, — I can no longer re-
fuse myself the pleasure of profiting by
your kind invitation when we last parted
of spending some weeks with you at
Churchhill, and, therefore, if quite convenient to you
and Mrs. Vernon to receive me at present, I shall
hope within a few days to be introduced to a
sister whom I have so long desired to be acquainted
with. My kind friends here are most affectionately
urgent with me to prolong my stay, but their hos-
pitable and cheerful dispositions lead them too much
into society for my present situation and state of
mind ; and I impatiently look forward to the hour
when I shall be admitted into your delightful re-
tirement.

I long to be made known to your dear little children,
in whose hearts I shall be very eager to secure an
interest. I shall soon have need for all my fortitude,

204 Lady Susan.

as I am on the point of separation from my own
daughter. The long illness of her dear father pre-
vented my paying her that attention which duty and
affection equally dictated, and I have too much reason
to fear that the governess to whose care I consigned
her was unequal to the charge. I have therefore
resolved on placing her at one of the best private
schools in town, where I shall have an opportunity of
leaving her myself in my way to you. I am deter-
mined, you see, not to be denied admittance at
Churchhill. It would indeed give me most painful
sensations to know that it were not in your power to
receive me.

Your most obliged and affectionate Sister,

S. Vernon.

II.

Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson.

Langford.

You were mistaken, my dear Alicia, in supposing
me fixed at this place for the rest of the winter : it
grieves me to say how greatly you were mistaken,
for I have seldom spent three months more agreeably
than those which have just flown away. At present,
nothing goes smoothly ; the females of the family
are united against me. You foretold how it would be
when I first came to Langford, and Mainwaring is so
uncommonly pleasing that I was not without appre-
hensions for myself. I remember saying to myself,
as I drove to the house, ' I like this man, pray

Lady Susan. 205

Heaven no harm come of it ! ' But I was determined
to be discreet, to bear in mind my being only four
months a widow, and to be as quiet as possible : and
I have been so, my dear creature ; I have admitted
no one's attentions but Mainwaring's. I have avoided
all general flirtation whatever ; I have distinguished
no creature besides, of all the numbers resorting
hither, except Sir James Martin, on whom I bestowed
a little notice, in order to detach him from Miss
Mainwaring ; but, if the world could know my motive
there they would honour me. I have been called an
unkind mother, but it was the sacred impulse of
maternal affection, it was the advantage of my
daughter that led me on ; and if that daughter were
not the greatest simpleton on earth, I might have
been rewarded for my exertions as I ought.

Sir James did make proposals to me for Frederica ;
but Frederica, who was born to be the torment of my
life, chose to set herself so violently against the match
that I thought it better to lay aside the scheme for
the present I have more than once repented that I
did not marry him myself; and were he but one
degree less contemptibly weak I certainly should :
but I must own myself rather romantic in that
respect, and that riches only will not satisfy me.
The event of all this is very provoking : Sir James is
gone, Maria highly incensed, and Mrs. Mainwaring
insupportably jealous ; so jealous, in short, and so-
enraged against me, that, in the fury of her temper, I
should not be surprised at her appealing to her guardian,
if she had the liberty of addressing him : but there

206 Lady Susan.

your husband stands my friend ; and the kindest,
most amiable action of his life was his throwing her
off for ever on her marriage. Keep up his resent-
ment, therefore, I charge you. We are now in a sad
state ; no house was ever more altered ; the whole
party are at war, and Mainwaring scarcely dares
speak to me. It is time for me to be gone ; I have
therefore determined on leaving them, and shall
spend, I hope, a comfortable day with you in town
within this week. If I am as little in favour with
Mr. Johnson as ever, you must come to me at 10
Wigmore Street; but I hope this may not be the
case, for as Mr. Johnson, with all his faults, is a man
to whom that great word 'respectable' is always given,
and I am known to be so intimate with his wife, his
slighting me has an awkward look.

I take London in my way to that insupportable
spot, a country village ; for I am really going to
Churchhill. Forgive me, my dear friend, it is my
last resource. Were there another place in England
open to me I would prefer it. Charles Vernon is my
aversion, and I am afraid of his wife. At Churchhill,
however, I must remain till I have something better
in view. My young lady accompanies me to town,
where I shall deposit her under the care of Miss
Summers, in Wigmore Street, till she becomes a little
more reasonable. She will make good connections
there as the girls are all of the best families. The
price is immense, and much beyond what I can ever
attempt to pay.

Lady Sits an. 207

Adieu, I will send you a line as soon as I arrive
in town.

Yours ever,

S. Vernon.

III.

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy.

Churchhill.

My dear Mother,— I am very sorry to tell you that
it will not be in our power to keep our promise of
spending our Christmas with you ; and we are pre-
vented that happiness by a circumstance which is not
likely to make us any amends. Lady Susan, in a
letter to her brother-in-law, has declared her intention
of visiting us almost immediately ; and as such a visit
is in all probability merely an affair of convenience, it
is impossible to conjecture its length. I was by no
means prepared for such an event, nor can I now ac-
count for her ladyship's conduct ; Langford appeared
so exactly the place for her in every respect, as well
from the" elegant and expensive style of living there,
as from her particular attachment to Mr. Mainwaring,
that I was very far from expecting so speedy a dis-
tinction, though I always imagined from her increasing
friendship for us since her husband's death that we
should, at some future period, be obliged to receive her.
Mr. Vernon, I think, was a great deal too kind to her
when he was in Staffordshire ; her behaviour to him,
independent of her general character, has been so in-
excusably artful and ungenerous since our marriage

208 Lady Susan.

was first in agitation that no one less amiable and
mild than himself could have overlooked it all ; and
though, as his brother's widow, and in narrow cir-
cumstances, it was proper to render her pecuniary-
assistance, I cannot help thinking his pressing invi-
tation to her to visit us at Churchhill perfectly
unnecessary. Disposed, however, as he always is to
think the best of everyone, her display of grief, and
professions of regret, and general resolutions of
prudence, were sufficient to soften his heart and make
him really confide in her sincerity; but, as for myself,
I am still unconvinced, and plausibly as her ladyship
has now written, I cannot make up my mind till I
better understand her real meaning in coming to us.
You may guess, therefore, my dear madam, with what
feelings I look forward to her arrival. She will have
occasion for all those attractive powers for which she
is celebrated to gain any share of my regard ; and I
shall certainly endeavour to guard myself against their
influence, if not accompanied by something more sub-
stantial. She expresses a most eager desire of being
acquainted with me, and makes very gracious mention
of my children, but I am not quite weak enough to
suppose a woman who has behaved with inattention,
if not with unkindness to her own child, should be
attached to any of mine. Miss Vernon is to be placed
at a school in London before her mother comes to us,
which I am glad of, for her sake and my own. It
must be to her advantage to be separated from her
mother, and a girl of sixteen who has received so
wretched an education, could not be a very desirable

Lady Susan. 209

companion here. Reginald has long wished, I know,
to see the captivating Lady Susan, and we shall
depend on his joining our party soon. I am glad to
hear that my father continues so well ; and am, with

best love, &c,

Catherine Vernon.

IV.

Mr, De Courcy to Mrs. Vernon.

Parklands.

My dear Sister, — I congratulate you and Mr. Vernon
on being about to receive into your family the most
accomplished coquette in England. As a very dis-
tinguished flirt I have always been taught to consider
her, but it has lately fallen in my way to hear some
particulars of her conduct at Langford, which prove
that she does not confine herself to that sort of honest
flirtation which satisfies most people, but aspires to
the more delicious gratification of making a whole
family miserable. By her behaviour to Mr. Main-
waring she gave jealousy and wretchedness to his
wife, and by her attentions to a young man previously
attached to Mr. Mainwaring's sister deprived an
amiable girl of her lover.

I learnt all this from Mr. Smith, now in this neigh-
bourhood (I have dined with him, at Hurst and
Wilford), who is just come from Langford where he
was a fortnight with her ladyship, and who is there-
fore well qualified to make the communication.

What a woman she must be ! I long to see her, and
P

2IO Lady Susan.

shall certainly accept your kind invitation, that I may
form some idea of those bewitching powers which can
do so much — engaging at the same time, and in the
same house, the affections of two men, who were
neither of them at liberty to bestow them — and all
this without the charm of youth ! I am glad to find
Miss Vernon does not accompany her mother to
Churchhill, as she has not even manners to recom-
mend her ; and, according to Mr. Smith's account, is
equally dull and proud. Where pride and stupidity
unite there can be no dissimulation worthy notice, and
Miss Vernon shall be consigned to unrelenting con-
tempt; but by all that I can gather Lady Susan
possesses a degree of captivating deceit which it must
be pleasing to witness and detect. I shall be with
you very soon, and am ever,

Your affectionate Brother,
R. DE COURCY.

V.

Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson.

Churchhill.
I received your note, my dear Alicia, just before I
left town, and rejoice to be assured that Mr. Johnson
suspected nothing of your engagement the evening
before. It is undoubtedly better to deceive him
entirely, and since he will be stubborn he must be
* tricked. I arrived here in safety, and have no reason
to complain of my reception from Mr. Vernon ; but I
confess myself not equally satisfied with the behaviour

Lady Susan. 21 1

of his lady. She is perfectly well-bred, indeed, and
has the air of a woman of fashion, but her manners
are not such as can persuade me of her being pre-
possessed in my favour. I wanted her to be delighted
at seeing me. I was as amiable as possible on the
occasion, but all in vain. She does not like me. To
be sure when we consider that I did take some pains
to prevent my brother-in-law's marrying her, this want
of cordiality is not very surprising, and yet it shows
an illiberal and vindictive spirit to resent a project
which influenced me six years ago, and which never
succeeded at last.

I am sometimes disposed to repent that I did not
let Charles buy Vernon Castle, when we were obliged
to sell it ; but it was a trying circumstance, especially
as the sale took place exactly at the time of his
marriage ; and everybody ought to respect the delicacy
of those feelings which could not endure that my
husband's dignity should be lessened by his younger
brother's having possession of the family estate.
Could matters have been so arranged as to prevent
the necessity of our leaving the castle, could we have
lived with Charles and kept him single, I should have
been very far from persuading my husband to dispose
of it elsewhere ; but Charles was on the point of
marrying Miss De Courcy, and the event has justified
me. Here are children in abundance, and what
benefit could have accrued to me from his purchasing
Vernon ? My having prevented it may perhaps have
given his wife an unfavourable impression, but where
there is a disposition to dislike, a motive will never be

212 Lady Sits an.

wanting ; and as to money matters it has not withheld
him from being very useful to me. I really have a
regard for him, he is so easily imposed upon ! The
house is a good one, the furniture fashionable, and
everything announces plenty and elegance. Charles
is very rich I am sure ; when a man has once got his
name in a banking-house he rolls in money ; but they
do not know what to do with it, keep very little
company, and never go to London but on business.
We shall be as stupid as possible. I mean to win my
sister-in-law's heart through the children ; I know all
their names already, and am going to attach myself
with the greatest sensibility to one in particular, a
young Frederic, whom I take on my lap and sigh
over for his dear uncle's sake.

Poor Mainwaring ! I need not tell you how much I
miss him, how perpetually he is in my thoughts. I
found a dismal letter from him on my arrival here,
full of complaints of his wife and sister, and lamenta-
tions on the cruelty of his fate. I passed off the
letter as his wife's, to the Vernons, and when I write
to him it must be under cover to you.

Ever yours,

S. Vernon.
VI.
Mrs. Vernon to Mr. De Convey.

Churchhill.

Well, my dear Reginald, I have seen this danger-
ous creature, and must give you some description of
her, though I hope you will soon be able to form your
own judgment. She is really excessively pretty ;

Lady Susan. 213

however you may choose to question the allurements
of a lady no longer young, I must, for my own part,
declare that I have seldom seen so lovely a woman
as Lady Susan. She is delicately fair, with fine grey
eyes and dark eyelashes ; and from her appearance
one would not suppose her more than five and twenty,
though she must in fact be ten years older. I was cer-
tainly not disposed to admire her, though always hear-
ing she was beautiful ; but I cannot help feeling that
she possesses an uncommon union of symmetry, bril-
liancy, and grace. Her address to me was so gentle,
frank, and even affectionate, that, if I had not known
how much she has always disliked me for marrying
Mr. Vernon, and that we had never met before, I
should have imagined her an attached friend. One is
apt, I believe, to connect assurance of manner with
coquetry, and to expect that an impudent address
will naturally attend an impudent mind ; at least I
was myself prepared for an improper degree of confi-
dence in Lady Susan ; but her countenance is abso-
lutely sweet, and her voice and manner winningly
mild. I am sorry it is so, for what is this but deceit?
Unfortunately, one knows her too well. She is clever
and agreeable, has all that knowledge of the world
which makes conversation easy, and talks very well,
with a happy command of language, which is too
often used, I believe, to make black appear white.
She has already almost persuaded me of her being
warmly attached to her daughter, though I have been
so long convinced to the contrary. She speaks of her
with so much tenderness and anxiety, lamenting so

214 Lady Susan.

bitterly the neglect of her education, which she repre-
sents however as wholly unavoidable, that I am forced
to recollect how many successive springs her ladyship
spent in town, while her daughter was left in Stafford-
shire to the care of servants, or a governess very little
better, to prevent my believing what she says.

If her manners have so great an influence on my
resentful heart, you may judge how much more
strongly they operate on Mr. Vernon's generous tem-
per. I wish I could be as well satisfied as he is, that
it was really her choice to leave Langford for Church-
hill ; and if she had not stayed there for months
before she discovered that her friend's manner of
living did not suit her situation or feelings, I might
have believed that concern for the loss of such a hus-
band as Mr. Vernon, to whom her own behaviour was
far from unexceptionable, might for a time make her
wish for retirement. But I cannot forget the length
of her visit to the Mainwarings, and when I reflect on
the different mode of life which she led with them
from that to which she must now submit, I can only
suppose that the wish of establishing her reputation
by following though late the path of propriety, occa-
sioned her removal from a family where she must in
reality have been particularly happy. Your friend
Mr. Smith's story, however, cannot be quite correct,
as she corresponds regularly with Mrs. Mainwaring.
At any rate it must be exaggerated. It is scarcely
possible that two men should be so grossly deceived
by her at once.

Yours, &c, Catherine Vernon.

Lady Susan. 215

VII.

Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson.

Churchhill.

My dear Alicia, — You are very good in taking
notice of Frederica, and I am grateful for it as a mark
of your friendship ; but as I cannot have any doubt
of the warmth of your affection, I am far from exact-
ing so heavy a sacrifice. She is a stupid girl, and has
nothing to recommend her. I would not, therefore,
on my account, have you encumber one moment of
your precious time by sending for her to Edward
Street, especially as every visit is so much deducted
from the grand affair of education, which I really
wish to have attended to while she remains at Miss
Summers'. I want her to play and sing with some
portion of taste and a good deal of assurance, as she
has my hand and arm and a tolerable voice. I was
so much indulged in my infant years that I was never
obliged to attend to anything, and consequently am
without the accomplishments which are now necessary
to finish a pretty woman. Not that I am an advo-
cate for the prevailing fashion of acquiring a perfect
knowledge of all languages, arts, and sciences. It is
throwing time away to be mistress of French, Italian,
and German: music, singing, and drawing, &c, will gain
a woman some applause, but will not add one lover to
her list — grace and manner, after all, are of the great-
est importance. I do not mean, therefore, that Frede-
rica's acquirements should be more than superficial,

216 Lady Susan.

and I flatter myself that she will not remain long
enough at school to understand anything thoroughly.
I hope to see her the wife of Sir James within a
twelvemonth. You know on what I ground my hope,
and it is certainly a good foundation, for school
must be very humiliating to a girl of Fredericks age.
And, by-the-by, you had better not invite her any
more on that account, as I wish her to find her situa-
tion as unpleasant as possible. I am sure of Sir
James at any time, and could make him renew his
application by a line. I shall trouble you meanwhile
to prevent his forming any other attachment when he
comes to town. Ask him to your house occasionally,
and talk to him of Frederica, that he may not forget
her. Upon the whole, I commend my own conduct
in this affair extremely, and regard it as a very happy
instance of circumspection and tenderness. Some
mothers would have insisted on their daughter's ac-
cepting so good an offer on the first overture ; but I
could not reconcile it to myself to force Frederica into
a marriage from which her heart revolted, and instead
of adopting so harsh a measure merely propose to
make it her own choice, by rendering her thoroughly
uncomfortable till she does accept him — but enough
of this tiresome girl. You may well wonder how I
contrive to pass my time here, and for the first week
it was insufferably dull. Now, however, we begin to
mend, our party is enlarged by Mrs. Vernon's brother,
a handsome young man, who promises me some
amusement There is something about him which
rather interests me, a sort of sauciness and familiarity

Lady Susan. 217

which I shall teach him to correct. He is lively, and
seems clever, and when I have inspired him with
greater respect for me than his sister's kind offices
have implanted, he may be an agreeable flirt. There
is exquisite pleasure in subduing an insolent spirit,
in making a person predetermined to dislike acknow-
ledge one's superiority. I have disconcerted him
already by my calm reserve, and it shall be my en-
deavour to humble the pride of these self-important
De Courcys still lower, to convince Mrs. Vernon that
her sisterly cautions have been bestowed in vain, and
to persuade Reginald that she has scandalously belied
me. This project will serve at least to amuse me, and
prevent my feeling so acutely this dreadful separation
from you and all whom I love.

Yours ever,

S. Vernon.

VIII.

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy.

Churchhill.

My dear Mother, — You must not expect Reginald
back again for some time. He desires me to tell you
that the present open weather induces him to accept
Mr. Vernon's invitation to prolong his stay in Sussex,
that they may have some hunting together. He
means to send for his horses immediately, and it is
impossible to say when you may see him in Kent. I
will not disguise my sentiments on this change from
you, my dear mother, though I think you had better

2i8 Lady Susan.

not communicate them to my father, whose excessive
anxiety about Reginald would subject him to an
alarm which might seriously affect his health and
spirits. Lady Susan has certainly contrived, in the
space of a fortnight, to make my brother like her. In
short, I am persuaded that his continuing here beyond
the time originally fixed for his return is occasioned
as much by a degree of fascination towards her, as by
the wish of hunting with Mr. Vernon, and of course I
cannot receive that pleasure from the length of his
visit which my brother's company would otherwise give
me. I am, indeed, provoked at the artifice of this
unprincipled woman ; what stronger proof of her dan-
gerous abilities can be given than this perversion of
Reginald's judgment, which when he entered the
house was so decidedly against her ? In his last letter
he actually gave me some particulars of her behaviour
at Langford, such as he received from a gentleman
who knew her perfectly well, which, if true, must raise
abhorrence against her, and which Reginald himself
was entirely disposed to credit His opinion of her,
I am sure, was as low as of any woman in England ;
and when he first came it was evident that he consi-
dered her as one entitled neither to delicacy nor re-
spect, and that he felt she would be delighted with
the attentions of any man inclined to flirt with her.
Her behaviour, I confess, has been calculated to do
away with such an idea ; I have not detected the
smallest impropriety in it — nothing of vanity, of pre-
tension, of levity ; and she is altogether so attractive
that I should not wonder at his being delighted with

Lady Susan. 219

her, had he known nothing of her previous to this
personal acquaintance ; but, against reason, against
conviction, to be so well pleased with her, as I am
sure he is, does really astonish me. His admiration
was at first very strong, but no more than was natural,
and I did not wonder at his being much struck by the
gentleness and delicacy of her manners ; but when he
has mentioned her of late it has been in terms of more
extraordinary praise ; and yesterday he actually said
that he could not be surprised at any effect produced
on the heart of man by such loveliness and such abi-
lities ; and when I lamented, in reply, the badness of
her disposition, he observed that whatever might have
been her errors they were to be imputed to her neg-
lected education and early marriage, and that she
was altogether a wonderful woman. This tendency
to excuse her conduct, or to forget it, in the warmth
of admiration, vexes me ; and if I did not know that
Reginald is too much at home at Churchhill to need
an invitation for lengthening his visit, I should regret
Mr. Vernon's giving him any. Lady Susan's inten-
tions are of course those of absolute coquetry, or a
desire of universal admiration ; I cannot for a moment
imagine that she has anything more serious in view ;
but it mortifies me to see a young man of Reginald's
sense duped by her at all.

I am, &c,

Catherine Vernon.

220 Lady Susan.

IX.

Mrs. Johfison to Lady S. Vernon.

Edward Street.

My dearest Friend, — I congratulate you on Mr. De
Courcy's arrival, and I advise you by all means to
marry him ; his father's estate is, we know, consider-
able, and I believe certainly entailed. Sir Reginald
is very infirm, and not likely to stand in your way
long. I hear the young man well spoken of ; and
though no one can really deserve you, my dearest
Susan, Mr. De Courcy may be worth having. Main-
waring will storm of course, but you may easily pacify
him ; besides, the most scrupulous point of honour
could not require you to wait for his emancipation. I
have seen Sir James ; he came to town for a few days
last week, and called several times in Edward Street.
I talked to him about you and your daughter, and he
is so far from having forgotten you, that I am sure he
would marry either of you with pleasure. I gave him
hopes of Frederica's relenting, and told him a great
deal of her improvements. I scolded him for making
love to Maria Mainwaring ; he protested that he had
been only in joke, and we both laughed heartily at
her disappointment ; and, in short, were very agree-
able. He is as silly as ever.

Yours faithfully,

Alicia.

Lady Susan. 221

X.

Lady Susan Vernon. to Mrs. Johnson.

ChurchhilL

I am much obliged to you, my dear friend, for
your advice respecting Mr. De Courcy, which I know
was given with the full conviction of its expediency,
though I am not quite determined on following it.
I cannot easily resolve on anything so serious as
marriage ; especially as I am not at present in want
of money, and might perhaps, till the old gentleman's
death, be very little benefited by the match. It is true
that I am vain enough to believe it within my reach.
I have made him sensible of my power, and can now
enjoy the pleasure of triumphing over a mind pre-
pared to dislike me, and prejudiced against all my
past actions. His sister, too, is, I hope, convinced
how little the ungenerous representations of anyone
to the disadvantage of another will avail when op-
posed by the immediate influence of intellect and
manner. I see plainly that she is uneasy at my
progress in the good opinion of her brother, and
conclude that nothing will be wanting on her part to
counteract me ; but having once made him doubt
the justice of her opinion of me, I think I may defy
her. It has been delightful to me to watch his ad-
vances towards intimacy, especially to observe his
altered manner in consequence of my repressing by
the cool dignity of my deportment his insolent ap-
proach to direct familiarity. My conduct has been

222 Lady Susan.

equally guarded from the first, and I never behaved
less like a coquette in the whole course of my life,
though perhaps my desire of dominion was never
more decided. I have subdued him entirely by
sentiment and serious conversation, and made him,
I may venture to say, at least half in love with me,
without the semblance of the most commonplace
flirtation. Mrs. Vernon's consciousness of deserving
every sort of revenge that it can be in my power to
inflict for her ill-offices could alone enable her to
perceive that I am actuated by any design in be-
haviour so gentle and unpretending. Let her think
and act as she chooses, however. I have never yet
found that the advice of a sister could prevent a
young man's being in love if he chose. We are
advancing now to some kind of confidence, and in
short are likely to be engaged in a sort of platonic
friendship. On my side you may be sure of its never
being more, for if I were not attached to another
person as much as I can be to anyone, I should
make a point of not bestowing my affection on a
man who had dared to think so meanly of me.
Reginald has a good figure and is not unworthy
the praise you have heard given him, but is still
greatly inferior to our friend at Langford. He is less
polished, less insinuating than Mainwaring, and is
comparatively deficient in the power of saying those
delightful things which put one in good humour with
oneself and all the world. He is quite agreeable
enough, however, to afford me amusement, and to
make many of those hours pass very pleasantly

Lady Susan. 223

which would otherwise be spent in endeavouring to
overcome my sister-in-law's reserve, and listening to
the insipid talk of her husband. Your account of
Sir James is most satisfactory, and I mean to give
Miss Frederica a hint of my intentions very soon.

Yours, &c.,

S. Vernon.

XL

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy.

Churchhill.
I really grow quite uneasy, my dearest mother, about
Reginald, from witnessing the very rapid increase of
Lady Susan's influence. They are now on terms of
the most particular friendship, frequently engaged in
long conversations together; and she has contrived
by the most artful coquetry to subdue his judgment
to her own purposes. It is impossible to see the
intimacy between them so very soon established
without some alarm, though I can hardly suppose
that Lady Susan's plans extend to marriage. I wish
you could get Reginald home again on any plausible
pretence ; he is not at all disposed to leave us, and I
have given him as many hints of my father's pre-
carious state of health as common decency will allow
me to do in my own house. Her power over him
must now be boundless, as she has entirely effaced all
his former ill-opinion, and persuaded him not merely
to forget but to justify her conduct. Mr. Smith's
account of her proceedings at Langford, where he

224 Lady Susan.

accused her of having made Mr. Mainwaring and a
young man engaged to Miss Mainwaring distractedly
in love with her, which Reginald firmly believed
when he came here, is now, he is persuaded, only a
scandalous invention. He has told me so with a
warmth of manner which spoke his regret at having
believed the contrary himself. How sincerely do I
grieve that she ever entered this house ! I always
looked forward to her coming with uneasiness ; but
very far was it from originating in anxiety for Regi-
nald. I expected a most disagreeable companion
for myself, but could not imagine that my brother
would be in the smallest danger of being captivated
by a woman with whose principles he was so well ac-
quainted, and whose character he so heartily despised.
If you can get him away it will be a good thing.
Yours, &c,

Catherine Vernon.

XII.
Sir Reginald De Courcy to his Son,

Parklands.

I know that young men in general do not admit
of any enquiry even from their nearest relations into
affairs of the heart, but I hope, my dear Reginald,
that you will be superior to such as allow nothing for
a father's anxiety > and think themselves privileged
to refuse him their confidence and slight his advice.
You must be sensible that as an only son, and the
representative of an ancient family, your conduct in

Lady Susan. 225

life is most interesting to your connections ; and in
the very important concern of marriage especially,
there is everything at stake — your own happiness,
that of your parents, and the credit of your name. I
do not suppose that you would deliberately form an
absolute engagement of that nature without acquaint-
ing your mother and myself, or at least, without
being convinced that we should approve of your
choice ; but I cannot help fearing that you may be
drawn in, by the lady who has lately attached you,
to a marriage which the whole of your family, far
and near, must highly reprobate. Lady Susan's age
is itself a material objection, but her want of cha-
racter is one so much more serious, that the difference
of even twelve years becomes in comparison of small
amount Were you not blinded by a sort of fasci-
nation, it would be ridiculous in me to repeat the
instances of great misconduct on her side so very
generally known.

Her neglect of her husband, her encouragement
of other men, her extravagance and dissipation, were
so gross and notorious that no one could be ignorant
of them at the time, nor can now have forgotten
them. To our family she has always been repre-
sented in softened colours by the benevolence of Mr.
Charles Vernon, and yet, in spite of his generous en-
deavours to excuse her, we know that she did, from
the most selfish motives, take all possible pains to
prevent his marriage with Catherine.

My years and increasing infirmities make me very
desirous of seeing you settled in the world. To the

Q

226 Lady Susan.

fortune of a wife, the goodness of my own will make
me indifferent, but her family and character must be
equally unexceptionable. When your choice is fixed
so that no objection can be made to it, then I can
promise you a ready and cheerful consent ; but it is
my duty to oppose a match which deep art only
could render possible, and must in the end make
wretched. It is possible her behaviour may arise only
from vanity, or the wish of gaining the admiration of
a man whom she must imagine to be particularly
prejudiced against her; but it is more likely that she
should aim at something further. She is poor, and
may naturally seek an alliance which must be ad-
vantageous to herself; you know your own rights,
and that it is out of my power to prevent your
inheriting the family estate. My ability of distress-
ing you during my life would be a species of revenge
to which I could hardly stoop under any circum-
stances.

I honestly tell you my sentiments and intentions :
I do not wish to work on your fears, but on your
sense and affection. It would destroy every comfort
of my life to know that you were married to Lady
Susan Vernon ; it would be the death of that honest
pride with which I have hitherto considered my son ;
I should blush to see him, to hear of him, to think of
him. I may perhaps do no good but that of reliev-
ing my own mind by this letter, but I felt it my duty
to tell you that your partiality for Lady Susan is no
secret to your friends, and to warn you against her.
I should be glad to hear your reasons for disbelieving

Lady Susan. 227

Mr. Smith's intelligence ; you had no doubt of its
authenticity a month ago. If you can give me your
assurance of having no design beyond enjoying the
conversation of a clever woman for a short period,
and of yielding admiration only to her beauty and
abilities, without being blinded by them to her faults,
you will restore me to happiness ; but, if you cannot
do this, explain to me, at least, what has occasioned
so great an alteration in your opinion of her.
I am, &c, &c,

Reginald De Courcy.

XIII.

Lady De Courcy to Mrs. Vernoji.

Parklands.

My dear Catherine, — Unluckily I was confined to
my room when your last letter came, by a cold which
affected my eyes so much as to prevent my reading
it myself, so I could not refuse your father when he
offered to read it to me, by which means he became
acquainted, to my great vexation, with all your
fears about your brother. I had intended to write
to Reginald myself as soon as my eyes would let
me, to point out, as well as I could, the danger of an
intimate acquaintance, with so artful a woman as
Lady Susan, to a young man of his age, and high
expectations. I meant, moreover, to have reminded
him of our being quite alone now, and very much in
need of him to keep up our spirits these long winter
evenings. Whether it would have done any good

02

228 Lady Susan.

can never be settled now, but I am excessively vexed
that Sir Reginald should know anything of a matter
which we foresaw would make him so uneasy. He
caught all your fears the moment he had read your
letter, and I am sure he has not had the business
out of his head since. He wrote by the same post
to Reginald a long letter full of it all, and particu-
larly asking an explanation of what he may have
heard from Lady Susan to contradict the late shock-
ing reports. His answer came this morning, which I
shall enclose to you, as I think you will like to see
it. I wish it was more satisfactory ; but it seems
written with such a determination to think well of
Lady Susan, that his assurances as to marriage, &c,
do not set my heart at ease. I say all I can, how-
ever, to satisfy your father, and he is certainly less
uneasy since Reginald's letter. How provoking it
is, my dear Catherine, that this unwelcome guest of
yours should not only prevent our meeting this
Christmas, but be the occasion of so much vexation
and trouble ! Kiss the dear children for me.
Your affectionate mother,

C. De Courcy.

XIV.

Mr. De Courcy to Sir Reginald.

Churchhill.

My dear Sir, — I have this moment received your
letter, which has given me more astonishment than I

Lady Susan. 229

ever felt before. I am to thank my sister, I suppose,
for having represented me in such a light as to injure
me in your opinion, and give you all this alarm. I
know not why she should choose to make herself and
her family uneasy by apprehending an event which
no one but herself, I can affirm, would ever have
thought possible. To impute such a design to Lady
Susan would be taking from her every claim to that
excellent understanding which her bitterest enemies
have never denied her; and equally low must sink
my pretensions to common sense if I am suspected
of matrimonial views in my behaviour to her. Our
difference of age must be an insuperable objection,
and I entreat you, my dear father, to quiet your
mind, and no longer harbour a suspicion which can-
not be more injurious to your own peace than to our
understandings. I can have no other view in re-
maining with Lady Susan, than to enjoy for a short
time (as you have yourself expressed it) the con-
versation of a woman of high intellectual powers. If
Mrs. Vernon would allow something to my affection
for herself and her husband in the length of my visit,
she would do more justice to us all ; but my sister is
unhappily prejudiced beyond the hope of conviction
against Lady Susan. From an attachment to her
husband, which in itself does honour to both, she
cannot forgive the endeavours at preventing their
union, which have been attributed to selfishness in
Lady Susan ; but in this case, as well as in many
others, the world has most grossly injured that lady,
by supposing the worst where the motives of her

2 so Lady Susan.

conduct have been doubtful. Lady Susan had heard
something so materially to the disadvantage of my
sister as to persuade her that the happiness of Mr.
Vernon, to whom she was always much attached,
would be wholly destroyed by the marriage. And
this circumstance, while it explains the true motives
of Lady Susan's conduct, and removes all the blame
which has been so lavished on her, may also con-
vince us how little the general report of anyone
ought to be credited ; since no character, however
upright, can escape the malevolence of slander. If
my sister, in the security of retirement, with as little
opportunity as inclination to do evil, could not avoid
censure, we must not rashly condemn those who,
living in the world and surrounded with temptations,
should be accused of errors which they are known to
have the power of committing.

I blame myself severely for having so easily be-
lieved the slanderous tales invented by Charles Smith
to the prejudice of Lady Susan, as I am now con-
vinced how greatly they have traduced her. As to
Mrs. Mainwaring's jealousy it was totally his own
invention, and his account of her attaching Miss
Mainwaring's lover was scarcely better founded. Sir
James Martin had been drawn in by that young lady
to pay her some attention ; and as he is a man of
fortune, it was easy to see her views extended to
marriage. It is well known that Miss M. is absolutely
on the catch for a husband, and no one therefore
can pity her for losing, by the superior attractions of
another woman, the chance of being able to make a

Lady Susan. 231

worthy man completely wretched. Lady Susan was
far from intending such a conquest, and on finding
how warmly Miss Mainwaring resented her lover's
defection, determined, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. Main-
waring's most urgent entreaties, to leave the family.
I have reason to imagine she did receive serious pro-
posals from Sir James, but her removing to Langford
immediately on the discovery of his attachment, must
acquit her on that article with any mind of common
candour. You will, I am sure, my dear Sir, feel the
truth of this, and will hereby learn to do justice to
the character of a very injured woman. I know that
Lady Susan in coming to Churchhill was governed
only by the most honourable and amiable intentions ;
her prudence and economy are exemplary, her regard
for Mr. Vernon equal even to his deserts ; and her
wish of obtaining my sister's good opinion merits a
better return than it has received. As a mother she
is unexceptionable ; her solid affection for her child
is shown by placing her in hands where her education
will be properly attended to ; but because she has
not the blind and weak partiality of most mothers,
she is accused of wanting maternal tenderness. Every
person of sense, however, will know how to value and
commend her well-directed affection, and will join
me in wishing that Frederica Vernon may prove
more worthy than she has yet done of her mother's
tender care. I have now, my dear father, written my
real sentiments of Lady Susan ; you will know from
this letter how highly I admire her abilities, and
esteem her character; but if you are not equally

232 Lady Susan.

convinced by my full and solemn assurance that
your fears have been most idly created, you will
deeply mortify and distress me.

I am, &c, &c,

R. De COURCY.

XV.

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Cowry.

Churchhill.

My dear Mother, — I return you Reginald's letter,
and rejoice with all my heart that my father is made
easy by it : tell him so, with my congratulations ;
but, between ourselves, I must own it has only con-
vinced me of my brother's having no present in-
tention of marrying Lady Susan, not that he is in
no danger of doing so three months hence. He
gives a very plausible account of her behaviour at
Langford ; I wish it may be true, but his intelli-
gence must come from herself, and I am less disposed
to believe it than to lament the degree of intimacy
subsisting between them implied by the discussion of
such a subject. I am sorry to have incurred his dis-
pleasure, but can expect nothing better while he is so
very eager in Lady Susan's justification. He is very
severe against me indeed, and yet I hope I have not
been hasty in my judgment of her. Poor woman !
though I have reasons enough for my dislike, I can-
not help pitying her at present, as she is in real
distress, and with too much cause. She had this
morning a letter from the lady with whom she has

Lady Susan, 233

placed her daughter, to request that Miss Vernon
might be immediately removed, as she had been de-
tected in an attempt to run away. Why, or whither
she intended to go, does not appear ; but, as her situ-
ation seems to have been unexceptionable, it is a sad
thing, and of course highly distressing to Lady Susan.
Frederica must be as much as sixteen, and ought to
know better ; but from what her mother insinuates,
I am afraid she is a perverse girl. She has been
sadly neglected, however, and her mother ought to
remember it. Mr. Vernon set off for London as
soon as she had determined what should be done.
He is, if possible, to prevail on Miss Summers to let
Frederica continue with her ; and if he cannot succeed,
to bring her to Churchhill for the present, till some
other situation can be found for her. Her ladyship is
comforting herself meanwhile by strolling along the
shrubbery with Reginald, calling forth all his tender
feelings, I suppose, on this distressing occasion. She
has been talking a great deal about it to me. She
talks vastly well ; I am afraid of being ungenerous, or
I should say, too well to feel so very deeply ; but I
will not look for faults ; she may be Reginald's wife !
Heaven forbid it ! but why should I be quicker-sighted
than anyone else ? Mr. Vernon declares that he never
saw deeper distress than hers, on the receipt of the
letter; and is his judgment inferior to mine? She
was very unwilling that Frederica should be allowed
to come to Churchhill, and justly enough, as it seems
a sort of reward to behaviour deserving very differ-
ently ; but it was impossible to take her anywhere

234 Lady Susan.

else, and she is not to remain here long. ' It will be
absolutely necessary/ said she, * as you, my dear sister,
must be sensible, to treat my daughter with some
severity while she is here ; a most painful necessity,
but I will endeavour to submit to it. I am afraid I
have often been too indulgent, but my poor Fre-
derica's temper could never bear opposition well : you
must support and encourage me ; you must urge the
necessity of reproof if you see me too lenient.' All
this sounds very reasonably. Reginald is so incensed
against the poor silly girl ! Surely it is not to Lady
Susan's credit that he should be so bitter against her
daughter ; his idea of her must be drawn from the
mother's description. Well, whatever may be his
fate, we have the comfort of knowing that we have
done our utmost to save him. We must commit the
event to a higher power.

Yours ever, &c.

Catherine Vernon.

XVI.

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson.

Churchhill.

Never, my dearest Alicia, was I so provoked in my
life as by a letter this morning from Miss Summers.
That horrid girl of mine has been trying to run away.
I had not a notion of her being such a little devil
before, she seemed to have all the Vernon milkiness ;
but on receiving the letter in which I declared my
intention about Sir James, she actually attempted to

Lady Susan. 235

elope ; at least, I cannot otherwise account for her
doing it. She meant, I suppose, to go to the Clarks
in Staffordshire, for she has no other acquaintances.
But she shall be punished, she shall have him. I
have sent Charles to town to make matters up if he
can, for I do not by any means want her here. If
Miss Summers will not keep her, you must find me
out another school, unless we can get her married
immediately. Miss S. writes word that she could
not get the young lady to assign any cause for her
extraordinary conduct, which confirms me in my own
previous explanation of it. Frederica is too shy, I
think, and too much in awe of me to tell tales, but if
the mildness of her uncle should get anything out of
her, I am not afraid. I trust I shall be able to make
my story as good as hers. If I am vain of anything,
it is of my eloquence. Consideration and esteem as
surely follow command of language as admiration
waits on beauty, and here I have opportunity enough
for the exercise of my talent, as the chief of my time
is spent in conversation.

Reginald is never easy unless we are by ourselves,
and when the weather is tolerable, we pace the shrub-
bery for hours together. I like him on the whole
very well ; he is clever and has a good deal to say,
but he is sometimes impertinent and troublesome.
There is a sort of ridiculous delicacy about him
which requires the fullest explanation of whatever he
may have heard to my disadvantage, and is never
satisfied till he thinks he has ascertained the begin-
ning and end of everything. This is one sort of love,

2$6 Lady Susan.

but I confess it does not particularly recommend
itself to me. I infinitely prefer the tender and liberal
spirit of Mainwaring, which, impressed with the
deepest conviction of my merit, is satisfied that what-
ever I do must be right ; and look with a degree of
contempt on the inquisitive and doubtful fancies of
that heart which seems always debating on the rea-
sonableness of its emotions. Mainwaring is indeed,
beyond all compare, superior to Reginald — superior
in everything but the power of being with me ! Poor
fellow ! he is much distracted by jealousy, which I
am not sorry for, as I know no better support of love.
He has been teazing me to allow of his coming into
this country, and lodging somewhere near incog. ; but
I forbade everything of the kind. Those women are
inexcusable who forget what is due to themselves, and
the opinion of the world.

Yours ever,

S. Vernon.

XVII.

Mrs, Vernon to Lady De Courcy.

Churchhill.

My dear Mother, — Mr. Vernon returned on Thurs-
day night, bringing his niece with him. Lady Susan
had received a line from him by that day's post,
informing her that Miss Summers had absolutely
refused to allow of Miss Vernon's continuance in her
academy ; we were therefore prepared for her arrival,
and expected them impatiently the whole evening.

Lady Susan, 237*

They came while we were at tea, and I never saw
any creature look so frightened as Frederica when
she entered the room. Lady Susan, who had been
shedding tears before, and showing great agitation
at the idea of the meeting, received her with perfect
self-command, and without betraying the least tender-
ness of spirit. She hardly spoke to her, and on
Fredericks bursting into tears as soon as we were
seated, took her out of the room, and did not return
for some time. When she did, her eyes looked
very red, and she was as much agitated as before.
We saw no more of her daughter. Poor Reginald
was beyond measure concerned to see his fair friend
in such distress, and watched her with so much tender
solicitude, that I, who occasionally caught her observ-
ing his countenance with exultation, was quite out
of patience. This pathetic representation lasted the
whole evening, and so ostentatious and artful a display
has entirely convinced me that she did in fact feel
nothing. I am more angry with her than ever since I
have seen her daughter ; the poor girl looks so unhappy
that my heart aches for her. Lady Susan is surely
too severe, for Frederica does not seem to have the
sort of temper to make seventy necessary. She looks
perfectly timid, dejected, and penitent. She is very
pretty, though not so handsome as her mother, nor at
all like her. Her complexion is delicate, but neither
so fair nor so blooming as Lady Susan's, and she has
quite the Vernon cast of countenance, the oval face
and mild dark eyes, and there is peculiar sweetness
in her look when she speaks either to her uncle or

238 Lady Susan,

me, for as we behave kindly to her we have of course
engaged her gratitude.

Her mother has insinuated that her temper is in-
tractable, but I never saw a face less indicative of
any evil disposition than hers ; and from what I can
see of the behaviour of each to the other, the invariable
severity of Lady Susan and the silent dejection of
Frederica, I am led to believe as heretofore that the
former has no real love for her daughter, and has
never done her justice or treated her affectionately. I
have not been able to have any conversation with my
niece ; she is shy, and I think I can see that some
pains are taken to prevent her being much with me.
Nothing satisfactory transpires as to her reason for
running away. Her kind-hearted uncle, you may be
sure, was too fearful of distressing her to ask many
questions as they travelled. I wish it had been pos-
sible for me to fetch her instead of him. I think I
should have discovered the truth in the course of a
thirty-mile journey. The small pianoforte has been
removed within these few days, at Lady Susan's re-
quest, into her dressing-room, and Frederica spends
great part of the day there, practising as it is called ;
but I seldom hear any noise when I pass that way ;
what she does with herself there I do not know.
There are plenty of books, but it is not every girl
who has been running wild the first fifteen years of
her life, that can or will read. Poor creature ! the
prospect from her window is not very instructive, for
that room overlooks the lawn, you know, with the
shrubbery on one side, where she may see her mother

Lady Susan, 239

walking for an hour together in earnest conversation
with Reginald. A girl of Fredericks age must be
childish indeed, if such things do not strike her. Is
it not inexcusable to give such an example to a
daughter ? Yet Reginald still thinks Lady Susan the
best of mothers, and still condemns Frederica as a
worthless girl ! He is convinced that her attempt to
run away proceeded from no justifiable cause, and had
no provocation. I am sure I cannot say that it had,
but while Miss Summers declares that Miss Vernon
showed no signs of obstinacy or perverseness during
her whole stay in Wigmore Street, till she was de-
tected in this scheme, I cannot so readily credit
what Lady Susan has made him, and wants to make
me believe, that it was merely an impatience of
restraint and a desire of escaping from the tuition of
masters which brought on the plan of an elopement.
O Reginald, how is your judgment enslaved ! He
scarcely dares even allow her to be handsome, and
when I speak of her beauty, replies only that her
eyes have no brilliancy ! Sometimes he is sure she
is deficient in understanding, and at others that her
temper only is in fault. In short, when a person is
always to deceive, it is impossible to be consistent.
Lady Susan finds it necessary that Frederica should
be to blame, and probably has sometimes judged it
expedient to excuse her of ill-nature and sometimes
to lament her want of sense. Reginald is only re-
peating after her ladyship.

I remain, &c, &c,

Catherine Vernon.

240 Lady Susan.

XVIII.

From the same to the same.

Churchhill.

My dear Mother, — I am very glad to find that my
description of Frederica Vernon has interested you,
for I do believe her truly deserving of your regard ;
and when I have communicated a notion which has
recently struck me, your kind impressions in her
favour will, I am sure, be heightened. I cannot help
fancying that she is growing partial to my brother.
I so very often see her eyes fixed on his face with
a remarkable expression of pensive admiration. He
is certainly very handsome ; and yet more, there is
an openness in his manner that must be highly pre-
possessing, and I am sure she feels it so. Thought-
ful and pensive in general, her countenance always
brightens into a smile when Reginald says anything
amusing ; and, let the subject be ever so serious that
he may be conversing on, I am much mistaken if a
syllable of his uttering escapes her. I want to make
him sensible of all this, for we know the power of
gratitude on such a heart as his ; and could Frederica's
artless affection detach him from her mother, we
might bless the day which brought her to Churchhill.
I think, my dear mother, you would not disapprove
of her as a daughter. She is extremely young, to be
sure, has had a wretched education, and a dreadful
example of levity in her mother ; but yet I can pro-
nounce her disposition to be excellent, and her natural
abilities very good. Though totally without accom-

Lady Susan. 241

plishments, she is by no means so ignorant as one
might expect to find her, being fond of books and
spending the chief of her time in reading. Her
mother leaves her more to herself than she did, and
I have her with me as much as possible, and have
taken great pains to overcome her timidity. We are
very good friends, and though she never opens her
lips before her mother, she talks enough when alone
with me to make it clear that, if properly treated by
Lady Susan, she would always appear to much greater
advantage. There cannot be a more gentle, affec-
tionate heart ; or more obliging manners, when acting
without restraint ; and her little cousins are all very
fond of her.

Your affectionate Daughter,

C. Vernon

XIX.

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson,

ChurchhilL

You will be eager, I know, to hear something
further of Frederica, and perhaps may think me
negligent for not writing before. She arrived with her
uncle last Thursday fortnight, when, of course, I lost
no time in demanding the cause of her behaviour ;
and soon found myself to have been perfectly right
in attributing it to my own letter. The prospect of
it frightened her so thoroughly, that, with a mixture of
true girlish perverseness and folly, she resolved on
getting out of the house and proceeding directly by
the stage to her friends, the Clarkes ; and had really

R

242 Lady Susan.

got as far as the length of two streets in her journey
when she was fortunately missed, pursued, and over-
taken. Such was the first distinguished exploit of
Miss Frederica Vernon ; and, if we consider that it
was achieved at the tender age of sixteen, we shall
have room for the most flattering prognostics of her
future renown. I am excessively provoked, however,
at the parade of propriety which prevented Miss
Summers from keeping the girl; and it seems so
extraordinary a piece of nicety, considering my
daughter's family connections, that I can only suppose
the lady to be governed by the fear of never getting
her money. Be that as it may, however, Frederica
is returned on my hands ; and, having nothing else
to employ her, is busy in pursuing the plan of
romance begun at Langford. She is actually falling
in love with Reginald De Courcy ! To disobey her
mother by refusing an unexceptionable offer is not
enough ; her affections must also be given without her
mother's approbation. I never saw a girl of her age
bid fairer to be the sport of mankind. Her feelings
are tolerably acute, and she is so charmingly artless
in their display as to afford the most reasonable hope
of her being ridiculous, and despised by every man
who sees her.

Artlessness will never do in love matters ; and
that girl is born a simpleton who has it either by
nature or affectation. I am not yet certain that Regi-
nald sees what she is about, nor is it of much conse-
quence. She is now an object of indifference to him,
and she would be one of contempt were he to under-

Lady Susan. 243

stand her emotions. Her beauty is much admired
by the Vernons, but it has no effect on him. She is
in high favour with her aunt altogether, because she
is so little like myself, of course. She is exactly the
companion for Mrs. Vernon, who dearly loves to be
first, and to have all the sense and all the wit of the
conversation to herself: Frederica will never eclipse
her. When she first came I was at some pains to
prevent her seeing much of her aunt ; but I have re-
laxed, as I believe I may depend on her observing
the rules I have laid down for their discourse. But
do not imagine that with all this lenity I have for a
moment given up my plan of her marriage. No ; I am
unalterably fixed on this point, though I have not yet
quite decided on the manner of bringing it about. I
should not choose to have the business brought on
here, and canvassed by the wise heads of Mr. and
Mrs. Vernon ; and I cannot just now afford to go to
town. Miss Frederica must therefore wait a little.

Yours ever,

S. Vernon.

XX.

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy.

Churchhill.

We have a very unexpected guest with us at
present, my dear mother : he arrived yesterday. I
heard a carriage at the door, as I was sitting with my
children while they dined ; and supposing I should be
wanted, left the nursery soon afterwards, and was
half-way down stairs, when Frederica, as pale as ashes.

244 Lady Susan.

came running up, and rushed by me into her own
room. I instantly followed, and asked her what was
the matter. ' Oh ! ' said she, ' he is come — Sir James
is come, and what shall I do ? ' This was no expla-
nation ; I begged her to tell me what she meant. At
that moment we were interrupted by a knock at the
door : it was Reginald, who came, by Lady Susan's
direction, to call Frederica down. ' It is Mr. De
Courcy ! ' said she, colouring violently. ' Mamma has
sent for me; I must go/ We all three went down
together ; and I saw my brother examining the terri-
fied face of Frederica with surprise. In the breakfast-
room we found Lady Susan, and a young man of
gentlemanlike appearance, whom she introduced by
the name of Sir James Martin — the very person, as
you may remember, whom it was said she had been
at pains to detach from Miss Mainwaring; but the
conquest, it seems, was not designed for herself, or she
has since transferred it to her daughter; for Sir James
is now desperately in love with Frederica, and with
full encouragement from mamma. The poor girl,
however, I am sure, dislikes him ; and though his
person and address are very well, he appears, both to
Mr. Vernon and me, a very weak young man. Frede-
rica looked so shy, so confused, when we entered the
room, that I felt for her exceedingly. Lady Susan
behaved with great attention to her visitor ; and yet
I thought I could perceive that she had no particular
pleasure in seeing him. Sir James talked a great
deal, and made many civil excuses to me for the
liberty he had taken in coming to Churchhill — mixing

Lady Susan. 245

more frequent laughter with his discourse than the
subject required- — said many things over and over
again, and told Lady Susan three times that he had
seen Mrs. Johnson a few evenings before. He now
and then addressed Frederica, but more frequently
her mother. The poor girl sat all this time without
opening her lips — her eyes cast down, and her colour
varying every instant; while Reginald observed all
that passed in perfect silence. At length Lady Susan,
weary, I believe, of her situation, proposed walking ;
and we left the two gentlemen together, to put on our
pelisses. As we went upstairs Lady Susan begged
permission to attend me for a few moments in my
dressing-room, as she was anxious to speak with me
in private. I led her thither accordingly, and as soon
as the door was closed, she said : ' I was never more
surprised in my life than by Sir James's arrival, and
the suddenness of it requires some apology to you,
my dear sister ; though to me, as a mother, it is
highly flattering. He is so extremely attached to
my daughter that he could not exist longer without
seeing her. Sir James is a young man of an amiable
disposition and excellent character ; a little too much
of the rattle, perhaps, but a year or two will rectify
that: and he is in other respects so very eligible a
match for Frederica, that I have always observed his
attachment with the greatest pleasure ; and am per-
suaded that you and my brother will give the alliance
your hearty approbation. I have never before men-
tioned the likelihood of its taking place to anyone,
because I thought that whilst Frederica continued at

246 Lady Susan.

school it had better not be known to exist ; but now,
as I am convinced that Frederica is too old ever to
submit to school confinement, and have, therefore,
begun to consider her union with Sir James as not
very distant, I had intended within a few days to ac-
quaint yourself and Mr. Vernon with the whole busi-
ness. I am sure, my dear sister, you will excuse my
remaining silent so long, and agree with me that such
circumstances, while they continue from any cause in
suspense, cannot be too cautiously concealed. When
you have the happiness of bestowing your sweet little
Catherine, some years hence, on a man who in con-
nection and character is alike unexceptionable, you
will know what I feel now ; though, thank Heaven,
you cannot have all my reasons for rejoicing in such
arr event Catherine will be amply provided for, and
not, like my Frederica, indebted to a fortunarte esta-
blishment for the comforts of life.' She concluded by
demanding my congratulations. I gave them some-
what awkwardly, I believe ; for, in fact, the sudden
disclosure of so important a matter took from me the
power of speaking with any clearness. She thanked
me, however, most affectionately, for my kind concern
in the welfare of herself and daughter ; and then said :
< I am not apt to deal in professions, my dear Mrs.
Vernon, and I never had the convenient talent of
affecting sensations foreign to my heart ; and therefore
I trust you will believe me when I declare, that much
as I had heard in your praise before I knew you, I
had no idea that I should ever love you as I now do ;
and I must further say that your friendship towards

Lady Susan. 247

me is more particularly gratifying because I have
reason to believe that some attempts were made to
prejudice you against me. I only wish that they,
whoever they are, to whom I am indebted for such
kind intentions, could see the terms on which we now
are together, and understand the real affection we
feel for each other; but I will not detain you any
longer. God bless you, for your goodness to me and
my girl, and continue to you all your present happi-
ness.' What can one say of such a woman, my dear
mother ? Such earnestness, such solemnity of expres-
sion ! and yet I cannot help suspecting the truth of
everything she says. As for Reginald, I believe he
does not know what to make of the matter. When
Sir James came, he appeared all astonishment and
perplexity ; the folly of the young man and the con-
fusion of Frederica entirely engrossed him ; and
though a little private discourse with Lady Susan has
since had its effect, he is still hurt, I am sure, at her
allowing of such a man's attentions to her daughter.
Sir James invited himself with great composure to
remain here a few days — hoped we would not think
it odd, was aware of its being very impertinent, but
he took the liberty of a relation ; and concluded by
wishing, with a laugh, that he might be really one
very soon. Even Lady Susan seemed a little discon-
certed by this forwardness; in her heart I am per-
suaded she sincerely wished him gone. But something
must be done for this poor girl, if her feelings are
such as both I and her uncle believe them to be. She
must not be sacrificed to policy or ambition, and she

248 Lady Susan.

must not be left to suffer from the dread of it. The
girl whose heart can distinguish Reginald De Courcy,
deserves, however he may slight her, a better fate
than to be Sir James Martin's wife. As soon as I can
get her alone, I will discover the real truth ; but she
seems to wish to avoid me. I hope this does not
proceed from anything wrong, and that I shall not
find out I have thought too well of her. Her beha-
viour to Sir James certainly speaks the greatest con-
sciousness and embarrassment, but I see nothing in it
more like encouragement. Adieu, my dear mother.

Yours, &c.

C. Vernon.

XXI.

Miss Vernon to Mr. De Courcy.

Sir, — I hope you will excuse this liberty; I am
forced upon it by the greatest distress, or I should be
ashamed to trouble you. I am very miserable about
Sir James Martin, and have no other way in the world
of helping myself but by writing to you, for I am
forbidden even speaking to my uncle and aunt on the
subject ; and this being the case, I am afraid my ap-
plying to you will appear no better than equivocation,
and as if I attended to the letter and not the spirit of
mamma's commands. But if you do not take my
part and persuade her to break it off, I shall be half
distracted, for I cannot bear him. No human being
but you could have any chance of prevailing with her.

Lady Susan. 249

If you will, therefore, have the unspeakably great
kindness of taking my part with her, and persuading
her to send Sir James away, I shall be more obliged
to you than it is possible for me to express. I always
disliked him from the first : it is not a sudden fancy,
I assure you, sir; I always thought him silly and
impertinent and disagreeable, and now he is grown
worse than ever. I would rather work for my bread
than marry him. I do not know how to apologise
enough for this letter ; I know it is taking so great a
liberty. I am aware how dreadfully angry it will make
mamma, but I remember the risk.

I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

F. S. V.

XXII.

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson.

Churchhill.

This is insufferable ! My dearest friend, I was never
so enraged before, and must relieve myself by writing
to you, who I know will enter into all my feelings.
Who should come on Tuesday but Sir James Martin !
Guess my astonishment, and vexation — for, as you
well know, I never wished him to be seen at Church-
hill What a pity that you should not have known
his intentions ! Not content with coming, he actually
invited himself to remain here a few days. I could
have poisoned him ! I made the best of it, however,
and told my story with great success to Mrs. Vernon,
who, whatever might be her real sentiments, said

250 Lady Susan.

nothing in opposition to mine. I made a point also
of Fredericks behaving civilly to Sir James, and gave
her to understand that I was absolutely determined
on her marrying him. She said something of her
misery, but that was all. I have for some time been
more particularly resolved on the match from seeing
the rapid increase of her affection for Reginald, and
from not feeling secure that a knowledge of such
affection might not in the end awaken a return. Con-
temptible as a regard founded only on compassion
must make them both in my eyes, I felt by no
means assured that such might not be the consequence.
It is true that Reginald had not in any degree grown
cool towards me ; but yet he has lately mentioned
Frederica spontaneously and unnecessarily, and once
said something in praise of her person. He was all
astonishment at the appearance of my visitor, and at
first observed Sir James with an attention which I was
pleased to see not unmixed with jealousy ; but un-
luckily it was impossible for me really to torment
him, as Sir James, though extremely gallant to me,
very soon made the whole party understand that his
heart was devoted to my daughter. I had no great
difficulty in convincing De Courcy, when we were
alone, that I was perfectly justified, all things con-
sidered, in desiring the match ; and the whole business
seemed most comfortably arranged. They could none
of them help perceiving that Sir James was no Solomon ;
but I had positively forbidden Frederica complaining
to Charles Vernon or his wife, and they had therefore
no pretence for interference ; though my impertinent

Lady Susan. 251

sister, I believe, wanted only opportunity for doing
so. Everything, however, was going on calmly and
quietly ; and, though I counted the hours of Sir James's
stay, my mind was entirely satisfied with the posture
of affairs. Guess, then, what I must feel at the sudden
disturbance of all my schemes j and that, too, from a
quarter where I had least reason to expect it. Reginald
came this morning into my dressing-room with a very
unusual solemnity of countenance, and after some
preface informed me in so many words that he wished
to reason with me on the impropriety and unkindness
of allowing Sir James Martin to address my daughter
contrary to her inclinations. I was all amazement.
When I found that he was not to be laughed out of his
design, I calmly begged an explanation, and desired
to know by what he was impelled, and by whom
commissioned, to reprimand me. He then told me,
mixing in his speech a few insolent compliments and
ill-timed expressions of tenderness, to which I listened
with perfect indifference, that my daughter had ac-
quainted him with some circumstances concerning
herself, Sir James, and me which had given him great
uneasiness. In short, I found that she had in the first
place actually written to him to request his interference,
and that, on receiving her letter, he had conversed
with her on the subject of it, in order to understand
the particulars, and to assure himself of her real
wishes. I have not a doubt but that the girl took
this opportunity of making downright love to him.
I am convinced of it by the manner in which he spoke
of her. 'Much good may such love do him ! I shall

252 Lady Susan.

ever despise the man who can be gratified by the
passion which he never wished to inspire, nor solicited
the avowal of. I shall always detest them both. He
can have no true regard for me, or he would not have
listened to her; and she, with her little rebellious
heart and indelicate feelings, to throw herself into the
protection of a young man with whom she has scarcely
ever exchanged two words before ! I am equally con-
founded at her impudence and his credulity. How
dared he believe what she told him in my disfavour !
Ought he not to have felt assured that I must have
unanswerable motives for all that I had done ? Where
was his reliance on my sense and goodness then ?
Where the resentment which true love would have
dictated against the person defaming me — that person,
too, a chit, a child, without talent or education, whom
he had been always taught to despise ? I was calm
for some time ; but the greatest degree of forbearance
may be overcome, and I hope I was afterwards suffi-
ciently keen. He endeavoured, long endeavoured, to
soften my resentment ; but that woman is a fool
indeed who, while insulted by accusation, can be
worked on by compliments. At length he left me,
as deeply provoked as myself; and he showed his
anger more. I was quite cool, but he gave way to
the most violent indignation ; I may therefore expect
it will the sooner subside, and perhaps his may
be vanished for ever, while mine will be found still
fresh and implacable. He is now shut up in his
apartment, whither I heard him go on leaving mine.
How unpleasant, one would think, must be his reflec-

Lady Susan. 253

tions! but some people's feelings are incomprehen-
sible. I have not yet tranquillised myself enough to
see Frederica. She shall not soon forget the occur-
rences of this day ; she shall find that she has poured
forth her tender tale of love in vain, and exposed
herself for ever to the contempt of the whole world,
and the severest resentment of her injured mother.

Your affectionate

S. Vernon.

XXIII.

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy.

Churchhill.
Let me congratulate you, my dearest mother ! The
affair which has given us so much anxiety is drawing
to a happy conclusion. Our prospect is most delight-
ful, and since matters have now taken so favourable a
turn, I am quite sorry that I ever imparted my appre-
hensions to you ; for the pleasure of learning that the
danger is over is perhaps dearly purchased by all that
you have previously suffered. I am so much agitated
by delight that I can scarcely hold a pen ; but am
determined to send you a few short lines by James,
that you may have some explanation of what must so
greatly astonish you, as that Reginald should be re-
turning to Parklands. I was sitting about half-an-
hour ago with Sir James in the breakfast parlour,
when my brother called me out of the room. I in-
stantly saw that something was the matter ; his com-
plexion was raised, and he spoke with great emotion ;
you know his eager manner, my dear mother, when

254 Lady Susan.

his mind is interested. ' Catherine,' said he, ' I am
going home to-day ; I am sorry to leave you, but I
must go : it is a great while since I have seen my
father and mother. I am going to send James forward
with my hunters immediately ; if you have any letter,
therefore, he can take it. I shall not be at home
myself till Wednesday or Thursday, as I shall go
through London, where I have business ; but before
I leave you/ he continued, speaking in a lower tone,
and with still greater energy, 'I must warn you of
one thing — do not let Frederica Vernon be made un-
happy by that Martin. He wants to marry her ; her
mother promotes the match, but she cannot endure
the idea of it. Be assured that I speak from the
fullest conviction of the truth of what I say ; I knozv
that Frederica is made wretched by Sir James's con-
tinuing here. She is a sweet girl, and deserves a better
fate. Send him away immediately ; he is only a fool :
but what her mother can mean, Heaven only knows !
Good bye/ he added, shaking my hand with earnest-
ness ; ' I do not know when you will see me again ;
but remember what I tell you of Frederica ; you must
make it your business to see justice done her. She is
an amiable girl, and has a very superior mind to what
we have given her credit for.' He then left me, and
ran upstairs. I would not try to stop him, for I know
what his feelings must be. The nature of mine, as I
listened to him, I need not attempt to describe ; for a
minute or two I remained in the same spot, over-
powered by wonder of a most agreeable sort indeed ;
yet it required some consideration to be tranquilly

Lady Susan. 255

happy. In about ten minutes after my return to the
parlour Lady Susan entered the room. I concluded,
of course, that she and Reginald had been quarrelling ;
and looked with anxious curiosity for a confirmation of
my belief in her face. Mistress of deceit, however, she
appeared perfectly unconcerned, and after chatting on
indifferent subjects for a short time, said to me, ' I find
from Wilson that we are going to lose Mr. De Courcy
— is it true that he leaves Churchhill this morning ? '
I replied that it was. ' He told us nothing of all this
last night/ said she, laughing, ' or even this morning
at breakfast ; but perhaps he did not know it himself.
Young men are often hasty in their resolutions, and
not more sudden in forming than unsteady in keeping
them. I should not be surprised if he were to change
his mind at last, and not go.' She soon afterwards
left the room. I trust, however, my dear mother, that
we have no reason to fear an alteration of his present
plan; things have gone too far. They must have
quarrelled, and about Frederica, too. Her calmness
astonishes me. What delight will be yours in seeing
him again ; in seeing him still worthy your esteem,
still capable of forming your happiness ! When I
next write I shall be able to tell you that Sir James
is gone, Lady Susan vanquished, and Frederica at
peace. We have much to do, but it shall be done.
I am all impatience to hear how this astonishing
change was effected. I finish as I began, with the
warmest congratulations.

Yours ever, &c,

Cath. Vernon.

256 Lady Susan.

XXIV.

From the same to the same.

Churchhill.

Little did I imagine, my dear mother, when I sent
off my last letter, that the delightful perturbation of
spirits I was then in would undergo so speedy, so
melancholy a reverse. I never can sufficiently regret
that I wrote to you at all. Yet who could have
foreseen what has happened ? My dear mother, every
hope which made me so happy only two hours ago
has vanished. The quarrel between Lady Susan and
Reginald is made up, and we are all as we were before.
One point only is gained. Sir James Martin is dis-
missed. What are we now to look forward to ? I
am indeed disappointed ; Reginald was all but gone,
his horse was ordered and all but brought to the door ;
who would not have felt safe ? For half an hour I
was in momentary expectation of his departure.
After I had sent off my letter to you, I went to Mr.
Vernon, and sat with him in his room talking over
the whole matter, and then determined to look for
Frederica, whom I had not seen since breakfast. I
met her on the stairs, and saw that she was crying.
' My dear aunt/ said she, ' he is going — Mr. De Courcy
is going, and it is all my fault. I am afraid you will
be very angry with me, but indeed I had no idea it
would end so/ ' My love/ I replied, ' do not think it
necessary to apologise to me on that account. I shall
feel myself under an obligation to anyone who is the
means of sending my brother home, because/ recol-

Lady Susan. 257

lecting myself, ' I know my father wants very much
to see him. But what is it you have done to occasion
all this ? ' She blushed deeply as she answered : ' I
was so unhappy about Sir James that I could not
help — I have done something very wrong, I know ;
but you have not an idea of the misery I have been
in : and mamma had ordered me never to speak to you
or my uncle about it, and — ' ' You therefore spoke to
my brother to engage his interference/ said I, to save
her the explanation. ' No, but I wrote to him — I
did indeed, I got up this morning before it was light,
and was two hours about it ; and when my letter
was done I thought I never should have courage to
give it. After breakfast, however, as I was going to my
room, I met him in the passage, and then, as I knew
that everything must depend on that moment, I forced
myself to give it. He was so good as to take it imme-
diately. I dared not look at him, and ran away directly.
I was in such a fright I could hardly breathe. My dear
aunt, you do not know how miserable I have been/
' Frederica/ said I, ' you ought to have told me all your
distresses. You would have found in me a friend always
ready to assist you. Do you think that your uncle
or I should not have espoused your cause as warmly
as my brother ? ' * Indeed, I did not doubt your kind-
ness/ said she, colouring again, ' but I thought Mr.
De Courcy could do anything with my mother ; but
I was mistaken : they have had a dreadful quarrel
about it, and he is going away. Mamma will never
forgive me, and I shall be worse off than ever.' ' No,
you shall not/ I replied ; ' in such a point as this your

s

258 Lady Susan,

mother's prohibition ought not to have prevented your
speaking to me on the subject. She has no right to
make you unhappy, and she shall not do it. Your
applying, however, to Reginald can be productive only
of good to all parties. I believe it is best as it is.
Depend upon it that you shall not be made unhappy
any longer.' At that moment how great was my
astonishment at seeing Reginald come out of Lady
Susan's dressing-room. My heart misgave me in-
stantly. His confusion at seeing me was very evident.
Frederica immediately disappeared. ' Are you going?'
I said ; ' you will find Mr. Vernon in his own room.'
' No, Catherine,' he replied, ' I am not going. Will
you let me speak to you a moment ? ' We went into
my room. ' 1 find/ he continued, his confusion in-
creasing as he spoke, ' that I have been acting with
my usual foolish impetuosity. I have entirely mis-
understood Lady Susan, and was on the point of
leaving the house under a false impression of her
conduct. There has been some very great mistake ;
we have been all mistaken, I fancy. Frederica does
not know her mother. Lady Susan means nothing
but her good, but she will not make a friend of her.
Lady Susan does not always know, therefore, what
wilL make her daughter happy. Besides, I could
have no right to interfere. Miss Vernon was mis-
taken in applying to me. In short, Catherine, every-
thing has gone wrong, but it is now all happily set-
tled. Lady Susan, I believe, wishes to speak to you
about it, if you are at leisure.' ' Certainly,' I replied,
deeply sighing at the recital of so lame a story. I

Lady Susan, 259

made no comments, however, for words would have
been vain.

Reginald was glad to get away, and I went to
Lady Susan, curious, indeed, to hear her account of
it. ' Did I not tell you/ said she with a smile, ' that
your brother would not leave us after all ?' ' You did,
indeed/ replied I very gravely ; 'but I flattered myself
you would be mistaken/ * I should not have hazarded
such an opinion/ returned she, ' if it had not at that
moment occurred to me that his resolution of going
might be occasioned by a conversation in which we
had been this morning engaged, and which had ended
very much to his dissatisfaction, from our not rightly
understanding each other's meaning. This idea struck
me at the moment, and I instantly determined that
an accidental dispute, in which I might probably be
as much to blame as himself, should not deprive you
of your brother. If you remember, I left the room
almost immediately. I was resolved to lose no time
in clearing up those mistakes as far as I could. The
case was this — Frederica had set herself violently
against marrying Sir James.' 'And can your lady-
ship wonder that she should ? ' cried I with some
warmth ; ' Frederica has an excellent understanding,
and Sir James has none/ ' I am at least very far
from regretting it, my dear sister/ said she ; ' on the
contrary, I am grateful for so favourable a sign of my
daughter's sense. Sir James is certainly below par
(his boyish manners make him appear worse) ; and
had Frederica possessed the penetration and the
abilities which I could have wished in my daughter,

260 Lady Susan.

or had I even known her to possess as much as she
does, I should not have been anxious for the match/
' It is odd that you should alone be ignorant of your
daughter's sense!' * Frederica never does justice to
herself; her manners are shy and childish, and besides
she is afraid of me. During her poor father's life she
was a spoilt child; the severity which it has since
been necessary for me to show has alienated her affec-
tion ; neither has she any of that brilliancy of intellect,
that genius or vigour of mind which will force itself
forward.' ' Say rather that she has been unfortunate
in her education ! ' ' Heaven knows, my dearest Mrs.
Vernon, how fully I am aware of that ; but I would
wish to forget every circumstance that might throw
blame on the memory of one whose name is sacred
with me.' Here she pretended to cry ; I was out of
patience with her. 'But what,' said I, 'was your
ladyship going to tell me about your disagreement
with my brother ? ' 'It originated in an action of my
daughter's, which equally marks her want of judgment
and the unfortunate dread of me I have been men-
tioning — she wrote to Mr. De Courcy.' ' I know she
did ; you had forbidden her speaking to Mr. Vernon
or to me on the cause of her distress ; what could she
do, therefore, but apply to my brother?' 'Good
God ! ' she exclaimed, ' what an opinion you must
have of me ! Can you possibly suppose that I was
aware of her unhappiness ? that it was my object to
make my own child miserable, and that I had for-
bidden her speaking to you on the subject from a fear
of your interrupting the diabolical scheme ? Do you

Lady Susan. 261

think me destitute of every honest, every natural
feeling? Am I capable of consigning her to ever-
lasting misery whose welfare it is my first earthly
duty to promote ? The idea is horrible ! ' ' What, then,
was your intention when you insisted on her silence ?'
* Of what use, my dear sister, could be any application
to you, however the affair might stand ? Why should
I subject you to entreaties which I refused to attend
to myself? Neither for your sake nor for hers, nor
for my own, could such a thing be desirable. When
my own resolution was taken I could not wish for the
interference, however friendly, of another person. I
was mistaken, it is true, but I believed myself right.'
' But what was this mistake to which your ladyship
so often alludes ? from whence arose so astonishing a
misconception of your daughter's feelings ? Did you
not know that she disliked Sir James V 'I knew that
he was not absolutely the man she would have
chosen, but I was persuaded that her objections to
him did not arise from any perception of his deficiency.
You must not question me, however, my dear sister,
too minutely on this point,' continued she, taking me
affectionately by the hand ; 1 1 honestly own that there
is something to conceal. Frederica makes me very
unhappy ! Her applying to Mr. De Courcy hurt me
particularly.' ' What is it you mean to infer,' said
I, ' by this appearance of mystery ? If you think
your daughter at all attached to Reginald, her ob-
jecting to Sir James could not less deserve to be
attended to than if the cause of her objecting had
been a consciousness of his folly ; and why should

262 Lady Susan.

your ladyship, at any rate, quarrel with my brother
for an interference which, you must know, it is not in
his nature to refuse when urged in such a manner ? '

( His disposition, you know, is warm, and he came
to expostulate with me ; his compassion all alive for
this ill-used girl, this heroine in distress ! We mis-
understood each other : he believed me more to
blame than I really was ; I considered his inter-
ference less excusable than I now find it. I have a
real regard for him, and was beyond expression mor-
tified to find it, as I thought, so ill bestowed. We
were both warm, and of course both to blame. His
resolution of leaving Churchhill is consistent with his
general eagerness. When I understood his intention,
however, and at the same time began to think that
we had been perhaps equally mistaken in each other's
meaning, I resolved to have an explanation before
it was too late. For any member of your family I
must always feel a degree of affection, and I own it
would have sensibly hurt me if my acquaintance with
Mr. De Courcy had ended so gloomily. I have now
only to say further, that as I am convinced of
Frederica's having a reasonable dislike to Sir James,
I shall instantly inform him that he must give up
all hope of her. I reproach myself for having even,
though innocently, made her unhappy on that score.
She shall have all the retribution in my power to
make ; if she value her own happiness as much as I
do, if she judge wisely, and command herself as she
ought, she may now be easy. Excuse me, my dearest
sister, for thus trespassing on your time, but I owe it

Lady Susan. 263

to my own character; and after this explanation I
trust I am in no danger of sinking in your opinion.'
I could have said, ' Not much, indeed ! ' but I left her
almost in silence. It was the greatest stretch of for-
bearance I could practise. I could not have stopped
myself had I begun. Her assurance ! her deceit ! but
I will not allow myself to dwell on them ; they will
strike you sufficiently. My heart sickens within me.
As soon as I was tolerably composed I returned to
the parlour. Sir James's carriage was at the door,
and he, merry as usual, soon afterwards took his
leave. How easily does her ladyship encourage or
dismiss a lover! In spite of this release, Frederica
still looks unhappy: still fearful, perhaps, of her
mother's anger; and though dreading my brother's
departure, jealous, it may be, of his staying. I see
how closely she observes him and Lady Susan, poor
girl ! I have now no hope for her. There is not a
chance of her affection being returned. He thinks
very differently of her from what he used to do ; he
does her some justice, but his reconciliation with her
mother precludes every dearer hope. Prepare, my
dear mother, for the worst ! The probability of their
marrying is surely heightened ! He is more securely
hers than ever. When that wretched event takes
place, Frederica must belong wholly to us. I am
thankful that my last letter will precede this by so
little, as every moment that you can be saved from
feeling a joy which leads only to disappointment is
of consequence.

Yours ever, &c.

Catherine Vernon.

264 Lady Susan.

XXV.

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson.

Churchhill.

I call on you, dear Alicia, for congratulations : I
am my ownself, gay and triumphant ! When I wrote
to you the other day I was, in truth, in high irritation,
and with ample cause. Nay, I know not whether I
ought to be quite tranquil now, for I have had more
trouble in restoring peace than I ever intended to
submit to — a spirit, too, resulting from a fancied
sense of superior integrity, which is peculiarly in-
solent ! I shall not easily forgive him, I assure you.
He was actually on the point of leaving Churchhill !
I had scarcely concluded my last, when Wilson
brought me word of it. I found, therefore, that some-
thing must be done ; for I did not choose to leave
my character at the mercy of a man whose passions
are so violent and so revengeful. It would have
been trifling with my reputation to allow of his de-
parting with such an impression in my disfavour ; in
this light, condescension was necessary. I sent Wilson
to say that I desired to speak with him before he
went; he came immediately. The angry emotions
which had marked every feature when we last parted
were partially subdued. He seemed astonished at
the summons, and looked as if half wishing and half
fearing to be softened by what I might say. If my
countenance expressed what I aimed at, it was com-
posed and dignified ; and yet, with a degree of pen-
siveness which might convince him that I was not

Lady Susan. 265

quite happy. ' I beg your pardon, sir, for the liberty
I have taken in sending for you/ said I ; ' but as I
have just learnt your intention of leaving this place
to-day, I feel it my duty to entreat that you will not
on my account shorten your visit here even an hour.
I am perfectly aware that after what has passed
between us it would ill suit the feelings of either to
remain longer in the same house : so very great, so
total a change from the intimacy of friendship must
render any future intercourse the severest punish-
ment; and your resolution of quitting Churchhill is
undoubtedly in unison with our situation, and with
those lively feelings which I know you to possess.
But, at the same time, it is not for me to suffer such a
sacrifice as it must be to leave relations to whom you
are so much attached, and are so dear. My remaining
here cannot give that pleasure to Mr. and Mrs. Vernon
which your society must ; and my visit has already
perhaps been too long. My removal, therefore, which
must, at any rate, take place soon, may, with perfect
convenience, be hastened ; and I make it my particular
request that I may not in any way be instrumental
in separating a family so affectionately attached to
each other. Where I go is of no consequence to any-
one ; of very little to myself; but you are of im-
portance to all your connections.' Here I concluded,
and I hope you will be satisfied with my speech. Its
effect on Reginald justifies some portion of vanity,
for it was no less favourable than instantaneous. Oh,
how delightful it was to watch the variations of his
countenance while I spoke ! to see the struggle be-

266 Lady Susan.

tween returning tenderness and the remains of dis-
pleasure. There is something agreeable in feelings
so easily worked on ; not that I envy him their pos-
session, nor would, for the world, have such myself \
but they are very convenient when one wishes to
influence the passions of another. And yet this
Reginald, whom a very few words from me softened
at once into the utmost submission, and rendered
more tractable, more attached, more devoted than
ever, would have left me in the first angry swelling of
his proud heart without deigning to seek an explana-
tion. Humbled as he now is, I cannot forgive him
such an instance of pride, and am doubtful whether I
ought not to punish him by dismissing him at once
after this reconciliation, or by marrying and teazing
him for ever. But these measures are each too violent
to be adopted without some deliberation ; at present
my thoughts are fluctuating between various schemes.
I have many things to compass : I must punish Fre-
derica, and pretty severely too, for her application to
Reginald ; I must punish him for receiving it so
favourably, and for the rest of his conduct. I must
torment my sister-in-law for the insolent triumph of
her look and manner since Sir James has been dis-
missed ; for, in reconciling Reginald to me, I was not
able to save that ill-fated young man; and I must
make myself amends for the humiliation to which I
have stooped within these few days. To effect all
this I have various plans. I have also an idea of
being soon in town ; and whatever may be my deter-
mination as to the rest, I shall probably put that

Lady Susan, 267

project in execution ; for London will be always the
fairest field of action, however my views may be
directed ; and at any rate I shall there be rewarded
by your society, and a little dissipation, for a ten
weeks' penance at Churchhill. I believe I owe it to
my character to complete the match between my
daughter and Sir James after having so long in-
tended it Let me know your opinion on this point.
Flexibility of mind, a disposition easily biassed by
others, is an attribute which you know I am not very
desirous of obtaining ; nor has Frederica any claim
to the indulgence of her notions at the expense of her
mother's inclinations. Her idle love for Reginald,
too ! It is surely my duty to discourage such ro-
mantic nonsense. All things considered, therefore, it
seems incumbent on me to take her to town and
marry her immediately to Sir James. When my
own will is effected contrary to his, I shall have some
credit in being on good terms with Reginald, which
at present, in fact, I have not ; for though he is still in
my power, I have given up the very article by which
our quarrel was produced, and at best the honour of
victory is doubtful. Send me your opinion on all
these matters, my dear Alicia, and let me know
whether you can get lodgings to suit me within a
short distance of you.

Your most attached

S. Vernon.

268 Lady Stisan.

XXVI.

Airs, Johnson to Lady Susan.

Edward Street.

I am gratified by your reference, and this is my
advice : that you come to town yourself, without loss
of time, but that you leave Frederica behind. It
would surely be much more to the purpose to get
yourself well established by marrying Mr. De Courcy,
than to irritate him and the rest of his family by
making her marry Sir James. You should think more
of yourself and less of your daughter. She is not of
a disposition to do you credit in the world, and seems
precisely in her proper place at Churchhill, with the
Vernons. But you are fitted for society, and it is
shameful to have you exiled from it. Leave Frederica,
therefore, to punish herself for the plague she has
given you, by indulging that romantic tender-hearted-
ness which will always ensure her misery enough, and
come to London as soon as you can. I have another
reason for urging this : Mainwaring came to town last
week, and has contrived, in spite of Mr. Johnson, to
make opportunities of seeing me. He is absolutely
miserable about you, and jealous to such a degree of
De Courcy that it would be highly unadvisable for
them to meet at present And yet, if you do not
allow him to see you here, I cannot answer for his
not committing some great imprudence — such as going
to Churchhill, for instance, which would be dreadful !
Besides, if you take my advice, and resolve to marry

Lady Susan. 269/

De Courcy, it will be indispensably necessary to you
to get Mainwaring out of the way ; and you only can
have influence enough to send him back to his wife.
I have still another motive for your coming : Mr. John-
son leaves London next Tuesday ; he is going for his
health to Bath, where, if the waters are favourable
to his constitution and my wishes, he will be laid up
with the gout many weeks. During his absence we
shall be able to chuse our own society, and to have
true enjoyment. I would ask you to Edward Street,
but that once he forced from me a kind of promise never
to invite you to my house ; nothing but my being in
the utmost distress for money should have extorted it
from me. I can get you, however, a nice drawing-room
apartment in Upper Seymour Street, and we may be
always together there or here ; for I consider my promise
to Mr. Johnson as comprehending only (at least in his
absence) your not sleeping in the house. Poor Main-
waring gives me such histories of his wife's jealousy.
Silly woman to expect constancy from so charming a
man ! but she always was silly— intolerably so in marry-
ing him at all, she the heiress of a large fortune and
he without a shilling : one title, I know, she might have
had, besides baronets. Her folly in forming the con-
nection was so great that, though Mr. Johnson was her
guardian, and I do not in general share Ms feelings, I
never can forgive her.

Adieu. Yours ever,

Alicia.

270 Lady Susan.

XXVII.
Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy.

Churchliill.

This letter, my dear mother, will be brought you by
Reginald. His long visit is about to be concluded at
last, but I fear the separation takes place too late to
do us any good. She is going to London to see her
particular friend, Mrs. Johnson. It was at first her
intention that Frederica should accompany her, for
the benefit of masters, but we overruled her there.
Frederica was wretched in the idea of going, and I
could not bear to have her at the mercy of her mother ;
not all the masters in London could compensate for
the ruin of her comfort. I should have feared, too, for
her health, and for everything but her principles — there
I believe she is not to be injured by her mother, or
her mother's friends ; but with those friends she must
have mixed (a very bad set, I doubt not), or have been
left in total solitude, and I can hardly tell which would
have been worse for her. If she is with her mother,
moreover, she must, alas ! in all probability be with
Reginald, and that would be the greatest evil of all.
Here we shall in time be in peace, arid our regular
employments, our books and conversations, with exer-
cise, the children, and every domestic pleasure in my
power to procure her, will, I trust, gradually overcome
this youthful attachment. I should not have a doubt
of it were she slighted for any other woman in the
world than her own mother. How long Lady Susan

Lady Susan. 271

will be in town, or whether she returns here again, I
know not I could not be cordial in my invitation, but
if she chuses to come no want of cordiality on my part
will keep her away. I could not help asking Reginald
if he intended being in London this winter, as soon as
I found her ladyship's steps would be bent thither; and
though he professed himself quite undetermined, there
was something in his look and voice as he spoke which
contradicted his words. I have done with lamentation ;
I look upon the event as so far decided that I resign
myself to it in despair. If he leaves you soon for
London everything will be concluded.

Your affectionate, &c,

C. Vernon.

XXVIII.

Mrs. Johnson to Lady Susan.

Edward Street.

My dearest Friend, — I write in the greatest distress ;
the most unfortunate event has just taken place. Mr.
Johnson has hit on the most effectual manner of
plaguing us all. He had heard, I imagine, by some
means or other, that you were soon to be in London,
and immediately contrived to have such an attack of
the gout as must at least delay his journey to Bath,
if not wholly prevent it. I am persuaded the gout is
brought on or kept off at pleasure ; it was the same
when I wanted to join the Hamiltons to the Lakes ;
and three years ago, when I had a fancy for Bath,
nothing could induce him to have a gouty symptom.

272 Lady Susan.

I am pleased to find that my letter had so much
effect on you, and that De Courcy is certainly your
own. Let me hear from you as soon as you arrive,
and in particular tell me what you mean to do with
Mainwaring. It is impossible to say when I shall be
able to come to you ; my confinement must be great-
It is such an abominable trick to be ill here instead of
at Bath that I can scarcely command myself at all.
At Bath his old aunts would have nursed him, but here
it all falls upon me; and he bears pain with such
patience that I have not the common excuse for losing
my temper.

Yours ever,

Alicia.

XXIX.

Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson,

Upper Seymour Street.
$Ay dear Alicia, — There needed not this last fit of the
gout to make me detest Mr. Johnson, but now the
extent of my aversion is not to be estimated. To
have you confined as nurse in his apartment ! My
dear Alicia, of what a mistake were you guilty in
marrying a man of his age ! just old enough to be
formal, ungovernable, and to have the gout ; too old
to be agreeable, too young to die. I arrived last
night about five, had scarcely swallowed my dinner
when Mainwaring made his appearance. I will not
dissemble what real pleasure his sight afforded me,
nor how strongly I felt the contrast between his person

Lady Susan. 273

and manners and those of Reginald, to the infinite
disadvantage of the latter. For an hour or two I was
even staggered in my resolution of marrying him,
and though this was too idle and nonsensical an idea
to remain long on my mind, I do not feel very eager
for the conclusion of my marriage, nor look forward
with much impatience to the time when Reginald,
according to our agreement, is to be in town. I shall
probably put off his arrival under some pretence or
other. He must not come till Mainwaring is gone. I
am still doubtful at times as to marrying ; if the old
man would die I might not hesitate, but a state of
dependance on the caprice of Sir Reginald will not
suit the freedom of my spirit ; and if I resolve to wait
for that event, I shall have excuse enough at present
in having been scarcely ten months a widow. I have
not given Mainwaring any hint of my intention, or
allowed him to consider my acquaintance with Regi-
nald as more than the commonest flirtation, and he is
tolerably appeased. Adieu, till we meet ; I am en-
chanted with my lodgings.

Yours ever,

S. Vernon.

XXX.

Lady Susan Vernon to Mr. de Courcy.

Upper Seymour Street.
I have received your letter, and though I do not
attempt to conceal that I am gratified by your im-
patience for the hour of meeting, I yet feel myself

T

274 Lady Susan.

under the necessity of delaying that hour beyond the
time originally fixed. Do not think me unkind for
such an exercise of my power, nor accuse me of in-
stability without first hearing my reasons. In the
course of my journey from Churchhill I had ample
leisure for reflection on the present state of our affairs,
and every review has served to convince me that they
require a delicacy and cautiousness of conduct to which
we have hitherto been too little attentive. We have
been hurried on by our feelings to a degree of precipi-
tation which ill accords with the claims of our friends
or the opinion of the world. We have been unguarded
in forming this hasty engagement, but we must not
complete the imprudence by ratifying it while there
is so much reason to fear the connection would be
opposed by those friends on whom you depend. It is
not for us to blame any expectations on your father's
side of your marrying to advantage ; where posses-
sions are so extensive as those of your family, the
wish of increasing them, if not strictly reasonable, is
too common to excite surprise or resentment. He has
a right to require a woman of fortune in his daughter-
in-law, and I am sometimes quarrelling with myself
for suffering you to form a connection so imprudent ;
but the influence of reason is often acknowledged too
late by those who feel like me. I have now been but
a few months a widow, and, however little indebted to
my husband's memory for any happiness derived from
him during a union of some years, I cannot forget
that the indelicacy of so early a second marriage must
subject me to the censure of the world, and incur,

Lady Susan. 275

what would be still more insupportable, the displeasure
of Mr. Vernon. I might perhaps harden myself in
time against the injustice of general reproach, but the
loss of his valued esteem I am, as you well know, ill-
fitted to endure; and when to this may be added the
consciousness of having injured you with your family,
how am I to support myself ? With feelings so poig-
nant as mine, the conviction of having divided the
son from his parents would make me, even with you,
the most miserable of beings. It will surely, there-
fore, be advisable to delay our union — to delay it till
appearances are more promising — till affairs have
taken a more favourable turn. To assist us in such a
resolution I feel that absence will be necessary. We
must not meet. Cruel as this sentence may appear,
the necessity of pronouncing it, which can alone re-
concile it to myself, will be evident to you when you
have considered our situation in the light in which I
have found myself imperiously obliged to place it.
You maybe — you must be — well assured that nothing
but the strongest conviction of duty could induce me
to wound my own feelings by urging a lengthened
separation, and of insensibility to yours you will
hardly suspect me. Again, therefore, I say that we
ought not, we must not, yet meet. By a removal for
some months from each other we shall tranquillise the
sisterly fears of Mrs. Vernon, who, accustomed herself
to the enjoyment of riches, considers fortune as neces-
sary everywhere, and whose sensibilities are not of a
nature to comprehend ours. Let me hear from you
soon — very soon. Tell me that you submit to my

276 Lady Susan.

arguments, and do not reproach me for using such.
I cannot bear reproaches : my spirits are not so high
as to need being repressed. I must endeavour to
seek amusement, and fortunately many of my friends
are in town ; amongst them the Mainwarings ; you
know how sincerely I regard both husband and wife.
I am, very faithfully yours,

S. Vernon.

XXXI.

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson.

Upper Seymour Street.

My dear Friend, — That tormenting creature, Regi-
nald, is here. My letter, which was intended to keep
him longer in the country, has hastened him to town.
Much as I wish him away, however, I cannot help
being pleased with such a proof of attachment. He
is devoted to me, heart and soul. He will carry this
note himself, which is to serve as an introduction to
you, with whom he longs to be acquainted. Allow
him to spend the evening with you, that I may be in
no danger of his returning here. I have told him that
I am not quite well, and must be alone ; and should
he call again there might be confusion, for it is im-
possible to be sure of servants. Keep him, therefore,
I entreat you, in Edward Street. You will not find
him a heavy companion, and I allow you to flirt with
him as much as you like. At the same time, do not
forget my real interest ; say all that you can to con-
vince him that I shall be quite wretched if he remains

Lady Susan. 277

here ; you know my reasons — propriety, and so forth.
I would urge them more myself, but that I am im-
patient to be rid of him, as Mainwaring comes within
half-an hour. Adieu !

S. Vernon.

XXXII.

Mrs. Johnson to Lady Susan.

Edward Street.
My dear Creature, — I am in agonies, and know not
what to do. Mr. De Courcy arrived just when he
should not. Mrs. Mainwaring had that instant entered
the house, and forced herself into her guardian's
presence, though I did not know a syllable of it till
afterwards, for I was out when both she and Reginald
came, or I should have sent him away at all events ;
but she was shut up with Mr. Johnson, while he waited
in the drawing-room for me. She arrived yesterday
in pursuit of her husband, but perhaps you know this
already from himself. She came to this house to
entreat my husband's interference, and before I could
be aware of it, everything that you could wish to be
concealed was known to him, and unluckily she had
wormed out of Mainwaring's servant that he had
visited you every day since your being in town, and
had just watched him to your door herself! What
could I do ? Facts are such horrid things ! All is by
this time known to De Courcy, who is now alone with
Mr. Johnson. Do not accuse me ; indeed, it was im-
possible to prevent it. Mr. Johnson has for some time

278 Lady Susan.

suspected De Courcy of intending to marry you, and
would speak with him alone as soon as he knew him
to be in the house. That detestable Mrs. Mainwaring,
who, for your comfort, has fretted herself thinner and
uglier than ever, is still here, and they have been all
closeted together. What can be done ? At any
rate, I hope he will plague his wife more than ever.
With anxious wishes,

Yours faithfully,
Alicia-

XXXIII.

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson.

Upper Seymour Street

This eclaircissement is rather provoking. How
unlucky that you should have been from home ! I
thought myself sure of you at seven ! I am undis-
mayed however. Do not torment yourself with fears
on my account ; depend on it, I can make my story
good with Reginald. Mainwaring is just gone ; he
brought me the news of his wife's arrival. Silly
woman, what does she expect by such manoeuvres ?
Yet I wish she had stayed quietly at Langford. Regi-
nald will be a little enraged at first, but by to-
morrow's dinner, everything will be well again.

Adieu !

S.V.

Lady Sits an. 2?g

XXXIV.

Mr. De Courcy to Lady Susan.

— HoteL
I write only to bid you farewell, the spell is re-
moved ; I see you as you are. Since we parted
yesterday, I have received from indisputable authority
such a history of you as must bring the most morti-
fying conviction of the imposition I have been under,
and the absolute necessity of an immediate and
eternal separation from you . You cannot doubt
to what I allude. Langford ! Langford ! that word
will be sufficient. I received my information in Mr.
Johnson's house, from Mrs. Mainwaring herself. You
know how I have loved you ; you can intimately
judge of my present feelings, but I am not so weak as
to find indulgence in describing them to a woman
who will glory in having excited their anguish, but
whose affection they have never been able to gain.

R. De Courcy.

XXXV.

Lady Stisan to Mr. De Courcy.

Upper Seymour Street
I will not attempt to describe my astonishment in
reading the note this moment received from you. I
am bewildered in my endeavours to form some ra-
tional conjecture of what Mrs. Mainwaring can have
told you to occasion so extraordinary a change in your
sentiments. Have I not explained everything to you

2 So Lady Susan.

with respect to myself which could bear a doubtful
meaning, and which the ill-nature of the world had
interpreted to my discredit ? What can you now
have heard to stagger your esteem for me ? Have I
ever had a concealment from you ? Reginald, you
agitate me beyond expression, I cannot suppose that
the old story of Mrs. Mainwaring's jealousy can be
revived again, or at least be listened to again. Come
to me immediately, and explain what is at present
absolutely incomprehensible. Believe me the single
word of Langford is not of such potent intelligence as
to supersede the necessity of more. If we are to
part, it will at least be handsome to take your per-
sonal leave — but I have little heart to jest ; in truth,
I am serious enough ; for to be sunk, though but for
an hour, in your esteem is a humiliation to which I
know not how to, submit I shall count every minute
till your arrival.

S. V.

XXXVI.

Mr. De Coarcy to Lady Susan.

— Hotel.
Why would you write to me ? Why do you require
particulars ? But, since it must be so, I am obliged
to declare that all the accounts of your misconduct
during the life, and since the death of Mr. Vernon,
which had reached me, in common with the world in
general, and gained my entire belief before I saw
you, but which you, by the exertion of your per-

Lady Susan. 281

verted abilities, had made me resolved to disallow,
have been unanswerably proved to me ; nay more, I
am assured that a connection, of which I had never
before entertained a thought, has for some time ex-
isted, and still continues to exist, between you and
the man whose family you robbed of its peace in
return for the hospitality with which you were re-
ceived into it; that you have corresponded with
him ever since your leaving Langford ; not with his
wife, but with him, and that he now visits you every
day. Can you, dare you deny it ? and all this at the
time when I was an encouraged, an accepted lover !
From what have I not escaped ! I have only to be
grateful. Far from me be all complaint, every sigh
of regret. My own folly had endangered me, my
preservation I owe to the kindness, the integrity of
another ; but the unfortunate Mrs. Mainwaring, whose
agonies while she related the past seemed to threaten
her reason, how is she to be consoled ! After such
a discovery as this, you will scarcely affect further
wonder at my meaning in bidding you adieu. My
understanding is at length restored, and teaches no
less to abhor the artifices which had subdued me
than to despise myself for the weakness on which
their strength was founded.

R. De Courcy.

282 Lady Susan.

XXXVII.

Lady Susan to Mr. De Courcy.

Upper Seymour Street
I am satisfied, and will trouble you no more when
these few lines are dismissed. The engagement
which you were eager to form a fortnight ago is no
longer compatible with your views, and I rejoice to
find that the prudent advice of your parents has not
been given in vain. Your restoration to peace will, I
doubt not, speedily follow this act of filial obedience,
and I flatter myself with the hope of surviving my
share in this disappointment

S. V.

XXXVIII.

Mrs. Johnson to Lady Susan Vernon.

Edward Street.

I am grieved, though I cannot be astonished at
your rupture with Mr. De Courcy; he has just in-
formed Mr. Johnson of it by letter. He leaves
London, he says, to-day. Be assured that I partake
in all your feelings, and do not be angry if I say that
our intercourse, even by letter, must soon be given
up. It makes me miserable ; but Mr. Johnson vows
that if I persist in the connection, he will settle in the
country for the rest of his life, and you know it is
impossible to submit to such an extremity while any
other alternative remains. You have heard of course

Lady Susan. 283

that the Mainwarings are to part, and I am afraid
Mrs. M. will come home to us again ; but she is still
so fond of her husband, and frets so much about him,
that perhaps she may not live long. Miss Main-
waring is just come to town to be with her aunt, and
they say that she declares she will have Sir James
Martin before she leaves London again. If I were
you, I would certainly get him myself. I had almost
forgot to give you my opinion of Mr. De Courcy ; I
am really delighted with him ; he is full as hand-
some, I think, as Mainwaring, and with such an open,
good-humoured countenance, that one cannot help
loving him at first sight. Mr. Johnson and he are
the greatest friends in the world. Adieu, my dearest
Susan, I wish matters did not go so perversely. That
unlucky visit to Langford ! but I dare say you did
all for the best, and there is no defying destiny.
Your sincerely attached,

Alicia.

XXXIX.

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson.

Upper Seymour Street
My dear Alicia, — I yield to the necessity which
parts us. Under circumstances you could not act
otherwise. Our friendship cannot be impaired by it,
and in happier times, when your situation is as in-
dependent as mine, it will unite us again in the same
intimacy as ever. For this I shall impatiently wait,
and meanwhile can safely assure you that I never was

284 Lady Susan.

more at ease, or better satisfied with myself and
everything about me than at the present hour. Your
husband I abhor, Reginald I despise, and I am secure
of never seeing either again. Have I not reason to
rejoice ? Mainwaring is more devoted to me than
ever ; and were we at liberty, I doubt if I could
resist even matrimony offered by him. This event, if
his wife live with you, it may be in your power to
hasten. The violence of her feelings, which must
wear her out, may be easily kept in irritation. I
rely on your friendship for this. I am now satisfied
that I never could have brought myself to marry
Reginald, and am equally determined that Frederica
never shall. To-morrow, I shall fetch her from
Churchhill, and let Maria Mainwaring tremble for the
consequence. Frederica shall be Sir James's wife
before she quits my house, and she may whimper, and
the Vernons may storm, I regard them not. I am
tired of submitting my will to the caprices of others ;
of resigning my own judgment in deference to those
to whom I owe no duty, and for whom I feel no
respect; I have given up too much, have been too
easily worked on, but Frederica shall now feel the
difference. Adieu, dearest of friends ; may the next
gouty attack be more favourable ! and may you
always regard me as unalterably yours,

S. Vernon.

Lady Susan. 285

XL.

Lady de Courcy to Mrs. Vernon.

My dear Catherine, — I have charming news for you,
and if I had not sent off my letter this morning you
might have been spared the vexation of knowing of
Reginald's being gone to London, for he is returned.
Reginald is returned, not to ask our consent to his
marrying Lady Susan, but to tell us they are parted
for ever. He has been only an hour in the house, and I
have not been able to learn particulars, for he is so very
low that I have not the heart to ask questions, but I
hope we shall soon know all. This is the most joyful
hour he has ever given us since the day of his birth.
Nothing is wanting but to have you here, and it is our
particular wish and entreaty that you would come to
us as soon as you can. You have owed us a visit
many long weeks ; I hope nothing will make it in-
convenient to Mr. Vernon ; and pray bring all my
grandchildren ; and your dear niece is included, of
course ; I long to see her. It has been a sad, heavy
winter hitherto, without Reginald, and seeing nobody
from Churchhill. I never found the season so dreary
before ; but this happy meeting will make us young
again. Frederica runs much in my thoughts, and
when Reginald has recovered his usual good spirits
(as I trust he soon will) we will try to rob him of his
heart once more, and I am full of hopes of seeing
their hands joined at no great distance.

Your affectionate mother,

C. De Courcy.

286 Lady Stisan.

XLI.

Mrs. Ver 7i07t to Lady de Courcy.

Churchhill.

My dear Mother, — Your letter has surprised me
beyond measure ! Can it be true that they are really
separated — and for ever ? I should be overjoyed if I
dared depend on it, but after all that I have seen how
can one be secure ? And Reginald really with you ! My
surprise is the greater because on Wednesday, the
very day of his coming to Parklands, we had a most
unexpected and unwelcome visit from Lady Susan,
looking all cheerfulness and good-humour, and seem-
ing more as if she were to marry him when she got to
London than as if parted from him for ever. She
stayed nearly two hours, was as affectionate and agree-
able as ever, and not a syllable, not a hint was dropped,
of any disagreement or coolness between them. I
asked her whether she had seen my brother since his
arrival in town ; not, as you may suppose, with any
doubt of the fact, but merely to see how she looked.
She immediately answered, without any embarrass-
ment, that he had been kind enough to call on her on
Monday ; but she believed he had already returned
home, which I was very far from crediting. Your
kind invitation is accepted by us with pleasure, and
on Thursday next we and our little ones will be
with you. Pray heaven, Reginald may not be in
town again by that time! I wish we could bring
dear Frederica too, but I am sorry to say that her

Lady Susan, 287

mother's errand hither was to fetch her away ; and,
miserable as it made the poor girl, it was impossible
to detain her. I was thoroughly unwilling to let her
go, and so was her uncle ; and all that could be urged
we did urge ; but Lady Susan declared that as she
was now about to fix herself in London for several
months, she could not be easy if her daughter were
not with her for masters, &c. Her manner, to be
sure, was very kind and proper, and Mr. Vernon
believes that Frederica will now be treated with affec-
tion. I wish I could think so too. The poor girl's
heart was almost broke at taking leave of us. I
charged her to write to me very often, and to remem-
ber that if she were in any distress we should be
always her friends. I took care to see her alone, that
I might say all this, and I hope made her a little
more comfortable ; but I shall not be easy till I can
go to town and judge of her situation myself. I wish
there were a better prospect than now appears of the
match which the conclusion of your letter declares
your expectations of. At present, it is not very
likely.

Yours ever, &c,

C. Vernon.

CONCLUSION.

This correspondence, by a meeting between some
of the parties, and a separation between the others,
could not, to the great detriment of the Post-Office
revenue, be continued any longer. Very little assist-

288 Lady Susan.

ance to the State could be derived from the epistolary
intercourse of Mrs. Vernon and her niece ; for the
former soon perceived, by the style of Fredericks
letters, that they were written under her mother's
inspection ! and therefore, deferring all particular en-
quiry till she could make it personally in London, ceased
writing minutely or often. Having learnt enough,
in the meanwhile, from her open-hearted brother,
of what had passed between him and Lady Susan to
sink the latter lower than ever in her opinion, she was
proportionably more anxious to get Frederica removed
from such a mother, and placed under her own care \
and, though with little hope of success, was resolved
to leave nothing unattempted that might offer a chance
of obtaining her sister-in-law's consent to it. Her
anxiety on the subject made her press for an early
visit to London ; and Mr. Vernon, who, as it must
already have appeared, lived only to do whatever he
was desired, soon found some accommodating business
to call him thither. With a heart full of the matter,
Mrs. Vernon waited on Lady Susan shortly after her
arrival in town, and was met with such an easy and
cheerful affection, as made her almost turn from her
with horror. No remembrance of Reginald, no con-
sciousness of guilt, gave one look of embarrassment ;
she was in excellent spirits, and seemed eager to show
at once by every possible attention to her brother and
sister her sense of their kindness, and her pleasure in
their society. Frederica was no more altered than
Lady Susan ; the same restrained manners, the same
timid look in the presence of her mother as heretofore,

Lady Stisan. 289

assured her aunt of her situation being uncomfortable,
and confirmed her in the plan of altering it. No
unkindness, however, on the part of Lady Susan ap-
peared. Persecution on the subject of Sir James was
entirely at an end ; his name merely mentioned to say
that he was not in London ; and indeed, in all her
conversation, she was solicitous only for the welfare
and improvement of her daughter, acknowledging, in
terms of grateful delight, that Frederica was now
growing every day more and more what a parent
could desire. Mrs. Vernon, surprised and incredulous,
knew not what to suspect, and, without any change in
her own views, only feared greater difficulty in accom-
plishing them. The first hope of anything better was
derived from Lady Susan's asking her whether she
thought Frederica looked quite as well as she had
done at Churchhill, as she must confess herself to have
sometimes an anxious doubt of London's perfectly
agreeing with her. Mrs. Vernon, encouraging the
doubt, directly proposed her niece's returning with
them into the country. Lady Susan was unable to
express her sense of such kindness, yet knew not,
from a variety of reasons, how to part with her
daughter ; and as, though her own plans were not yet
wholly fixed, she trusted it would ere long be in her
power to take Frederica into the country herself,
concluded by declining entirely to profit by such
unexampled attention. Mrs. Vernon persevered, how-
ever, in the offer of it, and though Lady Susan
continued to resist, her resistance in the course of a
few days seemed somewhat less formidable. The

u

290 Lady Susan.

lucky alarm of an influenza decided what might not
have been decided quite so soon. Lady Susan's
maternal fears were then too much awakened for her
to think of anything but Frederica's removal from the
risk of infection ; above all disorders in the world she
most dreaded the influenza for her daughter's con-
stitution !

Frederica returned to Churchhill with her uncle
and aunt ; and three weeks afterwards, Lady Susan
announced her being married to Sir James Martin.
Mrs. Vernon was then convinced of what she had only
suspected before, that she might have spared herself
all the trouble of urging a removal which Lady
Susan had doubtless resolved on from the first.
Frederica's visit was nominally for six weeks, but her
mother, though inviting her to return in one or two
affectionate letters, was very ready to oblige the whole
party by consenting to a prolongation of her stay,
and in the course of two months ceased to write of
her absence, and in the course of two more to write
to her at all. Frederica was therefore fixed in the
family of her uncle and aunt till such time as Re-
ginald De Courcy could be talked, flattered, and
finessed into an affection for her which, allowing
leisure for the conquest of his attachment to her
mother, for his abjuring all future attachments, and
detesting the sex, might be reasonably looked for in
the course of a twelvemonth. Three months might
have done it in general, but Reginald's feelings were
no less lasting than lively. Whether Lady Susan
was or was not happy in her second choice, I do not

Lady Susan. 291

see how it can ever be ascertained ; for who would
take her assurance of it on either side of the ques-
tion ? The world must judge from probabilities ; she
had nothing against her but her husband, and her
conscience. Sir James may seem to have drawn a
harder lot than mere folly merited ; I leave him,
therefore, to all the pity that anybody can give him.
For myself, I confess that / can pity only Miss Main-
waring; who, coming to town, and putting herself
to an expense in clothes which impoverished her for
two years, on purpose to secure him, was defrauded
of her due by a woman ten years older than herself.

FINIS.

PREFACE.

THIS WORK was left by its author a fragment without
a name, in so elementary a state as not even to be
divided into chapters ; and some obscurities and in-
accuracies of expression may be observed in it which
the author would probably have corrected. The
original manuscript is the property of my sister, Miss
Austen, by whose permission it is now published.
I have called it ' The Watsons/ for the sake of having
a title by which to designate it. Two questions may
be asked concerning it. When was it written ? And,
why was it never finished ? I was unable to answer
the first question, so long as I had only the internal
evidence of the style to guide me. I felt satisfied,
indeed, that it did not belong to that early class of
her writings which are mentioned at page 46 of the
Memoir, but rather bore marks of her more mature
style, though it had never been subjected to the filing
and polishing process by which she was accustomed
to impart a high finish to her published works. At
last, on a close inspection of the original manuscript,
the water-marks of 1803, and 1804, were found in the
paper on which it was written. It is, therefore, pro-
bable, that it was composed at Bath, before she
ceased to reside there in 1805. This would place
the date a few years later than the composition, but

296 Preface.

earlier than the publication of ' Sense and Sensibility/
and ' Pride and Prejudice/

To the second question, why was it never finished ?
I can give no satisfactory answer. I think it will be
generally admitted that there is much in it which pro-
mised well : that some of the characters are drawn
with her wonted vigour, and some with a delicate
discrimination peculiarly her own ; and that it is rich
in her especial power of telling the story, and bring-
ing out the characters by conversation rather than
by description. It could not have been broken up
for the purpose of using the materials in another
fabric ; for, with the exception of Mrs. Robert Watson,
in whom a resemblance to the future Mrs. Elton is
very discernible, it would not be easy to trace much
resemblance between this and any of her subsequent
works. She must have felt some regret at leaving
Tom Musgrave's character incomplete ; yet he never
appears elsewhere. My own idea is, but it is only
a guess, that the author became aware of the evil
of having placed her heroine too low, in such a
position of poverty and obscurity as, though not
necessarily connected with vulgarity, has a sad ten-
dency to degenerate into it; and therefore, like a
singer who has begun on too low a note, she discon-
tinued the strain. It was an error of which she was
likely to become more sensible, as she grew older,
and saw more of society ; certainly she never repeated
it by placing the heroine of any subsequent work
under circumstances likely to be unfavourable to the
refinement of a lady.

THE WATSONS.

HE first winter assembly in the town of D.
in Surrey was to be held on Tuesday,
October 13th, and it was generally ex-
pected to be a very good one. A long
list of county families was confidently run over as
sure of attending, and sanguine hopes were entertained
that the Osbornes themselves would be there. The
Edwards' invitation to the Watsons followed of course.
The Edwards were people of fortune, who lived in the
town and kept their coach. The Watsons inhabited
a village about three miles distant, were poor and
had no close carriage ; and ever since there had been
balls in the place, the former were accustomed to
invite the latter to dress, dine, and sleep at their
house on every monthly return throughout the winter.
On the present occasion, as only two of Mr. Watson's
children were at home, and one was always necessary
as companion to himself, for he was sickly and had
lost his wife, one only could profit by the kindness
of their friends. Miss Emma Watson, who was very
recently returned to her family from the care of an
aunt who had brought her up, was to make her first

298 The Watsons,

public appearance in the neighbourhood, and her
eldest sister, whose delight in a ball was not lessened
by a ten years' enjoyment, had some merit in cheer-
fully undertaking to drive her and all her finery in
the old chair to D. on the important morning.

As they splashed along the dirty lane Miss Wat-
son thus instructed and cautioned her inexperienced
sister.

' I dare say it will be a very good ball, and among
so many officers you will hardly want partners. You
will find Mrs. Edwards' maid very willing to help
you, and I would advise you to ask Mary Edwards'
opinion if you are at all at a loss, for she has a
very good taste. If Mr. Edwards does not lose his
money at cards you will stay as late as you can
wish for ; if he does he will hurry you home per-
haps — but you are sure of some comfortable soup.
I hope you will be in good looks. I should not be
surprised if you were to be thought one of the prettiest
girls in the room, there is a great deal in novelty.
Perhaps Tom Musgrave may take notice of you ; but
I would advise you by all means not to give him any
encouragement. He generally pays attention to every
new girl, but he is a great flirt and never means any-
thing serious/

'I think I have heard you speak of him before/
said Emma, 'who is he?'

' A young man of very good fortune, quite indepen-
dent, and remarkably agreeable, an universal favourite
wherever he goes. Most of the girls hereabout are in
love with him, or have been. I believe I am the only

The Watsons, 299

one among them that have escaped with a whole heart ;
and yet I was the first he paid attention to when he
came into this country six years ago ; and very great
attention did he pay me. Some people say that he
has never seemed to like any girl so well since,
though he is always behaving in a particular way to
one or another.'

'And how came your heart to be the only cold
one ? ' said Emma, smiling.

'There was a reason for that/ — replied Miss Watson,
changing colour — ' I have not been very well used
among them, Emma, I hope you will have better
luck/

' Dear sister, I beg your pardon, if I have unthink-
ingly given you pain.'

'When first we knew Tom Musgrave/ continued
Miss Watson, without seeming to hear her, 'I was
very much attached to a young man of the name of
Purvis, a particular friend of Robert's, who used to
be with us a great deal. Everybody thought it
would have been a match/

A sigh accompanied these words, which Emma
respected in silence ; but her sister after a short
pause went on.

' You will naturally ask why it did not take place,
and why he is married to another woman, while I
am still single. But you must ask him — not me —
you must ask Penelope. Yes, Emma, Penelope was
at the bottom of it all. She thinks everything fair
for a husband. I trusted her; she set him against
me. with a view of gaining him herself, and it ended

300 The Watsons.

in his discontinuing his visits, and soon after marrying
somebody else. Penelope makes light of her conduct,
but / think such treachery very bad. It has been the
ruin of my happiness. I shall never love any man
as I loved Purvis. I do not think Tom Musgrave
should be named with him in the same day.'

' You quite shock me by what you say'of Penelope/
said Emma, ' could a sister do such a thing ? Rivalry,
treachery between sisters ! I shall be afraid of being
acquainted with her. But I hope it was not so ; ap-
pearances were against her/

' You do not know Penelope. There is nothing
she would not do to get married. She would as
good as tell you so herself. Do not trust her with
any secrets of your own, take warning by me, do not
trust her ; she has her good qualities, but she has no
faith, no honour, no scruples, if she can promote her
own advantage. I wish with all my heart she w*as
well married. I declare I had rather have her well
married than myself/

'Than yourself! yes I can suppose so. A heart
wounded like yours can have little inclination for
matrimony/

' Not much indeed — but you know we must marry.
I could do very well single for my own part ; a
little company, and a pleasant ball now and then,
would be enough for me, if one could be young for
ever ; but my father cannot provide for us, and it
is very bad to grow old and be poor and laughed at.
I have lost Purvis, it is true ; but very few people
marry their first loves. I should not refuse a man

The Watsons. 301

because he was not Purvis. Not that I can ever quite
forgive Penelope/

Emma shook her head in acquiescence.

'Penelope, however, has had her troubles/ con-
tinued Miss Watson. * She was sadly disappointed
in Tom Musgrave, who afterwards transferred his
attentions from me to her, and whom she was very-
fond of ; but he never means anything serious, and
when he had trifled with her long enough, he began
to slight her for Margaret, and poor Penelope was
very wretched. And since then, she has been trying
to make some match at Chichester — she won't tell us
with whom; but I believe it is a rich old Dr. Harding,
uncle to the friend she goes to see; and she has taken
a vast deal of trouble about him, and given up a great
deal of time to no purpose as yet. When she went
away the other day, she said it should be the last
time. I suppose you did not know what her parti-
cular business was at Chichester, nor guess at the
object which could take her away from Stanton just
as you were coming home after so many years'
absence/

' No indeed, I had not the smallest suspicion of it
I considered her engagement to Mrs. Shaw just at that
time as very unfortunate for me. I had hoped to find
all my sisters at home, to be able to make an imme-
diate friend of each/

' I suspect the Doctor to have had an attack of the
asthma, and that she was hurried away on that ac-
count. The Shaws are quite on her side — at least, I
believe so; but she tells me nothing. She professes

302 The Watsons.

to keep her own counsel ; she says, and truly enough,
that " Too many cooks spoil the broth." '

1 1 am sorry for her anxieties,' said Emma ; ' but I
do not like her plans or her opinions. I shall be
afraid of her. She must have too masculine and bold
a temper. To be so bent on marriage — to pursue a
man merely for the sake of situation, is a sort of thing
that shocks me ; I cannot understand it. Poverty is
a great evil ; but to a woman of education and feeling
it ought not, it cannot be the greatest. I would
rather be teacher at a school (and I can think of
nothing worse), than marry a man I did not like/

' I would rather do anything than be teacher at a
school/ said her sister. '/ have been at school,
Emma, and know what a life they lead; you never
have. I should not like marrying a disagreeable man
any more than yourself ; but I do not think there are
many very disagreeable men ; I think I could like
any goodhumoured man with a comfortable income.
I suppose my aunt brought you up to be rather
refined.'

' Indeed I do not know. My conduct must tell
you how I have been brought up. I am no judge of
it myself. I cannot compare my aunt's method with
any other person's, because I know no other.'

' But I can see in a great many things that you are
very refined. I have observed it ever since you came
home, and I am afraid it will not be for your happi-
ness. Penelope will laugh at you very much.'

' That will not be for my happiness, I am sure. If
my opinions are wrong I must correct them ; if they

The Watsons. 303

are above my situation, I must endeavour to conceal
them ; but I doubt whether ridicule — has Penelope
much wit V

' Yes ; she has great spirits, and never cares what
she says/

' Margaret is more gentle, I imagine ?'
r Yes ; especially in company ; she is all gentleness
and mildness when anybody is by. But she is a little
fretful and perverse among ourselves. Poor creature !
She is possessed with the notion of Tom Musgrave's
being more seriously in love with her than he ever
was with anybody else, and is always expecting him
to come to the point. This is the second time within
this twelvemonth that she has gone to spend a month
with Robert and Jane on purpose to egg him on by
her absence ; but I am sure she is mistaken, and
that he will no more follow her to Croydon now than
he did last March. He will never marry unless he
can marry somebody very great ; Miss Osborne, per-
haps, or somebody in that style. 1

'Your account of this Tom Musgrave, Elizabeth,
gives me very little inclination for his acquaintance/
' You are afraid of him ; I do not wonder at you/
' No, indeed ; I dislike and despise him/
* Dislike and despise Tom Musgrave ! No, that
you never can. I defy you not to be delighted with
him if he takes notice of you. I hope he will dance
with you ; and I dare say he will, unless the Osbornes
come with a large party, and then he will not speak
to anybody else/

'He seems to have most engaging manners!' said

304- The Watsons.

Emma. ' Well, we shall see how irresistible Mr. Tom
Musgrave and I find each other. I suppose I shall
know him as soon as I enter the ball-room ; he must
carry some of his charms in his face/

* You will not find him in the ball-room, I can tell
you ; you will go early, that Mrs. Edwards may get
a good place by the fire, and he never comes till late ;
if the Osbornes are coming, he will wait in the pas-
sage and come in with them. I should like to look
in upon you, Emma. If it was but a good day with
my father, I would wrap myself up, and James should
drive me over as soon as I had made tea for him ;
and I should be with you by the time the dancing
began/

'What! Would you come late at night in this
chair ? '

' To be sure I would. There, I said you were very
refined, and thats an instance of it/

Emma for a moment made no answer. At last she
said —

' I wish, Elizabeth, you had not made a point of
my going to this ball ; I wish you were going instead
of me. Your pleasure would be greater than mine.
I am a stranger here, and know nobody but the Ed-
wards; my enjoyment, therefore, must be very doubt-
ful. Yours, among all your acquaintance, would
be certain. It is not too late to change. Very little
apology could be requisite to the Edwards, who
must be more glad of your company than of mine,
and I should most readily return to my father ; and
should not be at all afraid to drive this quiet old

The Watsons. 305

creature home. Your clothes I would undertake to
find means of sending to you.'

' My dearest Emma/ cried Elizabeth, warmly, ' do
you think I would do such a thing ? Not for the uni-
verse I But I shall never forget your goodnature in
proposing it. You must have a sweet temper indeed !
I never met with anything like it ! And would you
really give up the ball that I might be able to go to
it ? Believe me, Emma, I am not so selfish as that
comes to. No ; though I am nine years older than
you are, I would not be the means of keeping you
from being seen. You are very pretty, and it would
be very hard that you should not have as fair a
chance as we have all had to make your fortune. No,
Emma, whoever stays at home this winter, it shan't
be you. I am sure I should never have forgiven the
person who kept me from a ball at nineteen/

Emma expressed her gratitude, and for a few
minutes they jogged on in silence. Elizabeth first
spoke : —

' You will take notice who Mary Edwards dances
with?'

' I will remember her partners, if I can ; but you
know they will be all strangers to me.'

'Only observe whether she dances with Captain
Hunter more than once — I have my fears in that
quarter. Not that her father or mother like officers ;
but if she does, you know, it is all over with poor
Sam. And I have promised to write him word who
she dances with.'

' Is Sam attached to Miss Edwards ?'
X

306 The Watsons.

'Did not you know that V

' How should I know it ? How should I know in
Shropshire what is passing of that nature in Surrey ?
It is not likely that circumstances of such delicacy
should have made any part of the scanty communi-
cation which passed between you and me for the last
fourteen years.'

* I wonder I never mentioned it when I wrote.
Since you have been at home, I have been so busy
with my poor father, and our great wash, that I have
had no leisure to tell you anything ; but, indeed, I
concluded you knew it all. He has been very much
in love with her these two years, and it is a great dis-
appointment to him that he cannot always get away
to our balls ; but Mr. Curtis won't often spare him,
and just now it is a sickly time at Guildford.'

' Do you suppose Miss Edwards inclined to like him ? '

1 1 am afraid not : you know she is an only child,
and will have at least ten thousand pounds.'

' But still she may like our brother.'

' Oh, no ! The Edwards look much higher. Her
father and mother would never consent to it. Sam is
only a surgeon, you know. Sometimes I think she
does like him. But Mary Edwards is rather prim
and reserved ; I do not always know what she would
be at'

' Unless Sam feels on sure grounds with the lady
herself, it seems a pity to me that he should be en-
couraged to think of her at all.'

' A young man must think of somebody/ said
Elizabeth, ' and why should not he be as lucky as

The Watsons. 307

Robert, who has got a good wife and six thousand
pounds ? '

' We must not all expect to be individually lucky/
replied Emma. ' The luck of one member of a family
is luck to all.'

' Mine is all to come, I am sure/ said Elizabeth,
giving another sigh to the remembrance of Purvis. ' I
have been unlucky enough ; and I cannot say much
for you, as my aunt married again so foolishly. Well,
you will have a good ball, I daresay. The next turn-
ing will bring us to the turnpike : you may see the
church-tower over the hedge, and the White Hart is
close by it. I shall long to know what you think of
Tom Musgrave.'

Such were the last audible sounds of Miss Watson's
voice, before they passed through the turnpike-gate,
and entered on the pitching of the town, the jumbling
and noise of which made further conversation most
thoroughly undesirable. The old mare trotted heavily
on, wanting no direction of the reins to take the right
turning, and making only one blunder, in proposing
to stop at the milliner's, before she drew up towards
Mr. Edwards' door. Mr. Edwards lived in the best
house in the street, and the best in the place, if Mr.
Tomlinson, the banker, might be indulged in calling
his newly-erected house at the end of the town, with
a shrubbery and sweep, in the country.

Mr. Edwards' house was higher than most of its
neighbours, with four windows on each side the door ;
the windows guarded by posts and chains, and the
door approached by a flight of stone steps.

308 The Watsons.

' Here we are/ said Elizabeth, as the carriage ceased
moving, ' safely arrived, and by the market clock we
have been only five-and-thirty minutes coming ; which
I think is doing pretty well, though it would be nothing
for Penelope. Is not it a nice town? The Edwards
have a noble house, you see, and they live quite in
style. The door will be opened by a man in livery,
with a powdered head, I can tell you.'

Emma had seen the Edwards only one morning at
Stanton ; they were therefore all but strangers to her ;
and though her spirits were by no means insensible to
the expected joys of the evening, she felt a little un-
comfortable in the thought of all that was to precede
them. Her conversation with Elizabeth, too, giving
her some very unpleasant feelings with respect to her
own family, had made her more open to disagreeable
impressions from any other cause, and increased her
sense of the awkwardness of rushing into intimacy on
so slight an acquaintance.

There was nothing in the manner of Mrs. and Miss
Edwards to give immediate change to these ideas.
The mother, though a very friendly woman, had a
reserved air, and a great deal of formal civility ; and
the daughter, a genteel-looking girl of twenty-two,
with her hair in papers, seemed very naturally to have
caught something of the style of her mother, who had
brought her up. Emma was soon left to know what
they could be, by Elizabeth's being obliged to hurry
away; and some very languid remarks on the pro-
bable brilliancy of the ball were all that broke, at
intervals, a silence of half-an-hour, before they were

The Watsons. 309

joined by the master of the house. Mr. Edwards
had a much easier and more communicative air than
the ladies of the family ; he was fresh from the street,
and he came ready to tell whatever might interest.
After a cordial reception of Emma, he turned to his
daughter with —

' Well, Mary, I bring you good news : the Osbornes
will certainly be at the ball to-night. Horses for two
carriages are ordered from the White Hart to be at
Osborne Castle by nine.'

' I am glad of it/ observed Mrs. Edwards, ' because
their coming gives a credit to our assembly. The
Osbornes being known to have been at the first ball,
will dispose a great many people to attend the second.
It is more than they deserve ; for, in fact, they add
nothing to the pleasure of the evening : they come so
late and go so early ; but great people have always
their charm.'

Mr. Edwards proceeded to relate many other little
articles of news which his morning's lounge had
supplied him with, and they chatted with greater
briskness, till Mrs. Edwards' moment for dressing
arrived, and the young ladies were carefully recom-
mended to lose no time. Emma was shown to a very
comfortable apartment, and as soon as Mrs. Edwards'
civilities could leave her to herself, the happy occupa-
tion, the first bliss of a ball, began. The girls, dressing
in some measure together, grew unavoidably better
acquainted. Emma found in Miss Edwards the show
of good sense, a modest unpretending mind, and a
great wish of obliging ; and when they returned to the

310 The IVatsojis.

parlour where Mrs. Edwards was sitting, respectably-
attired in one of the two satin gowns which went
through the winter, and a new cap from the milliner's y
they entered it with much easier feelings and more
natural smiles than they had taken away. Their
dress was now to be examined : Mrs. Edwards
acknowledged herself too old-fashioned to approve
of every modern extravagance, however sanctioned ;
and though complacently viewing her daughter's
good looks, would give but a qualified admiration;
and Mr. Edwards, not less satisfied with Mary, paid
some compliments of good-humoured gallantry to
Emma at her expense. The discussion led to more
intimate remarks, and Miss Edwards gently asked
Emma if she was not often reckoned very like her
youngest brother. Emma thought she could perceive
a faint blush accompany the question, and there
seemed something still more suspicious in the manner
in which Mr. Edwards took up the subject.

' You are paying Miss Emma no great compliment,
I think, Mary/ said he, hastily. ' Mr. Sam Watson is
a very good sort of young man, and I dare say a very
clever surgeon ; but his complexion has been rather too
much exposed to all weathers to make a likeness to
him very flattering.'

Mary apologised, in some confusion —

' She had not thought a strong likeness at all incom-
patible with very different degrees of beauty. There
might be resemblance in countenance, and the com-
plexion and even the features be very unlike.'

' I know nothing of my brother's beauty,' said

The Watsons. 311

Emma, ' for I have not seen him since he was seven
years old ; but my father reckons us alike/

'Mr. Watson T cried Mr. Edwards; 'well, you as-
tonish me. There is not the least likeness in the
world ; your brother's eyes are grey, yours are brown ;
he has a long face, and a wide mouth. My dear, do
you perceive the least resemblance?'

' Not the least: Miss Emma Watson puts me very
much in mind of her eldest sister, and sometimes I
see a look of Miss Penelope, and once or twice there
has been a glance of Mr. Robert, but I cannot perceive
any likeness to Mr. Samuel.'

' I see the likeness between her and Miss Watson/
replied Mr. Edwards, 'very strongly, but I am not
sensible of the others. I do not much think she is
like any of the family but Miss Watson ; but I am
very sure there is no resemblance between her and
Sam.'

This matter was settled, and they went to dinner.

'Your father, Miss Emma, is one of my oldest
friends/ said Mr. Edwards, as he helped her to wine,
when they were drawn round the fire to enjoy their
dessert. ' We must drink to his better health. It is
a great concern to me, I assure you, that he should be
such an invalid. I know nobody who likes a game of
cards, in a social way, better than he does, and very
few people who play a fairer rubber. It is a thousand
pities that he should be so deprived of the pleasure.
For now, we have a quiet little Whist Club, that meets
three times a week at the White Hart ; and if he could
but have his health, how much he would enjoy it!'

312 The Watsons.

* I daresay he would, sir ; and I wish, with all my
heart, he were equal to it/

' Your club would be better fitted for an invalid/
said Mrs. Edwards, 'if you did not keep it up so
late/ This was an old grievance.

'So late, my dear! What are you talking of?'
cried the husband, with sturdy pleasantry. ' We are
always at home before midnight. They would laugh
at Osborne Castle to hear you call that late ; they
are but just rising from dinner at midnight/

4 That is nothing to the purpose/ retorted the
lady, calmly. ' The Osbornes are to be no rule for
us. You had better meet every night, and break up
two hours sooner/

So far the subject was very often carried ; but Mr.
and Mrs. Edwards were so wise as never to pass that
point ; and Mr. Edwards now "turned to something
else. He had lived long enough in the idleness of a
town to become a little of a gossip, and having some
anxiety to know more of the circumstances of his
young guest than had yet reached him, he began
with —

' I think, Miss Emma, I remember your aunt very
well, about thirty years ago ; I am pretty sure I
danced with her in the old rooms at Bath the year
before I married. She was a very fine woman then,
but like other people, I suppose, she is grown some-
what older since that time. I hope she is likely to
be happy in her second choice/

' I hope so ; I believe so, sir/ said Emma, in some
agitation.

The Watsons. 313

' Mr. Turner had not been dead a great while, I
think ?'

1 About two years, sir/

' I forget what her name is now.'

< O'Brien/

1 Irish ! ah, I remember ; and she is gone to settle
in Ireland. I do not wonder that you should not
wish to go with her into that country, Miss Emma ;
but it must be a great deprivation to her, poor lady !
after bringing you up like a child of her own/

' I was not so ungrateful, sir/ said Emma, warmly,
' as to wish to be anywhere but with her. It did not
suit Captain O'Brien that I should be of the party/

' Captain ! ' repeated Mrs. Edwards. ' The gentle-
man is in the army then ? '

' Yes, ma'am/

' Aye, there is nothing like your officers for capti-
vating the ladies, young or old. There is no resisting
a cockade, my dear/

' I hope there is,' said Mrs. Edwards gravely, with
a quick glance at her daughter ; and Emma had just
recovered from her own perturbation in time to see a
blush on Miss Edwards' cheek and in remembering
what Elizabeth had said of Captain Hunter, to wonder
and waver between his influence and her brother's.

< Elderly ladies should be careful how they make a
second choice,' observed Mr. Edwards.

' Carefulness and discretion should not be confined
to elderly ladies, or to a second choice/ added his
wife. ' They are quite as necessary to young ladies in
their first/

314 The Watsons.

' Rather more so, my dear/ replied he ; ' because
young ladies are likely to feel the effects of it longer.
When an old lady plays the fool, it is not in the
course of nature that she should suffer from it many
years/

Emma drew her hand across her eyes, and Mrs.
Edwards, in perceiving it, changed the subject to one
of less anxiety to all.

With nothing to do but to expect the hour of
setting off, the afternoon was long to the two young
ladies ; and though Miss Edwards was rather dis-
composed at the very early hour which her mother
always fixed for going, that early hour itself was
watched for with some eagerness. The entrance of
the tea-things at seven o'clock was some relief; and r
luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Edwards always drank a dish
extraordinary and ate an additional muffin when
they were going to sit up late, which lengthened the
ceremony almost to the wished-for moment.

At a little before eight o'clock the Tomlinsons' car-
riage was heard to go by, which was the constant
signal for Mrs. Edwards to order hers to the door ;
and in a very few minutes the party were trans-
ported from the quiet and warmth of a snug parlour to
the bustle, noise, and draughts of air of a broad entrance
passage of an inn. Mrs. Edwards, carefully guard-
ing her own dress, while she attended with yet greater
solicitude to the proper security of her young charges'
shoulders and throats, led the way up the wide stair-
case, while no sound of a ball but the first scrape of
one violin blessed the ears of her followers ; and

The Watsons. 315

Miss Edwards, on hazarding the anxious enquiry of
whether there were many people come yet, was told
by the waiter, as she knew she should, that Mr. Tom-
linsori's family were in the room.

In passing along a short gallery to the assembly
room, brilliant in lights before them, they were ac-
costed by a young man in a morning-dress and boots,
who was standing in the doorway of a bedchamber
apparently on purpose to see them go by.

1 Ah ! Mrs. Edwards, how do you do ? How do
you do, Miss Edwards ? ' he cried, with an easy air.
' You are determined to be in good time, I see, as
usual. The candles are but this moment lit'

' I like to get a good seat by the fire, you know,
Mr. Musgrave/ replied Mrs. Edwards.

' I am this moment going to dress/ said he. ' I
am waiting for my stupid fellow. We shall have a
famous ball. The Osbornes are certainly coming ;
you may depend upon that, for I was with Lord
Osborne this morning.'

The party passed on. Mrs. Edwards' satin gown
swept along the clean floor of the ballroom to the
fireplace at the upper end, where one party only were
formally seated, while three or four officers were
lounging together, passing in and out from the ad-
joining card-room. A very stiff meeting between
these near neighbours ensued, and as soon as they
were all duly placed again, Emma, in a low whisper,
which became the solemn scene, said to Miss
Edwards : —

' The gentleman we passed in the passage was Mr,

316 The Watsons.

Musgrave, then ; he is reckoned remarkably agree-
able, I understand ? '

Miss Edwards answered hesitatingly, ' Yes ; he is
very much liked by many people ; but we are not
very intimate.'

' He is rich, is not he ? '

' He has about eight or nine hundred a-year, I
believe. He came into possession of it when he was
very young, and my father and mother think it has
given him rather an unsettled turn. He is no favourite
with them.'

The cold and empty appearance of the room, and
the demure air of the small cluster of females at one
end of it, began soon to give way. The inspiriting
sound of other carriages was heard, and continual
accessions of portly chaperones, and strings of smartly
dressed girls, were received, with now and then a
fresh gentleman straggler, who, if not enough in love
to station himself near any fair creature, seemed glad
to escape into the card-room.

Among the increasing number of military men,
one now made his way to Miss Edwards with an
air of empressment which decidedly said to her com-
panion, * I am Captain Hunter ; ' and Emma, who
could not but watch her at such a moment, saw her
looking rather distressed, but by no means displeased,
and heard an engagement formed for the two first
dances, which made her think her brother Sam's
a hopeless case.

Emma in the meanwhile was not unobserved or
unadmired herself A new face, and a very pretty

The Watsons. 317

one, could not be slighted. Her name was whispered
from one party to another, and no sooner had the
signal been given by the orchestra's striking up a
favourite air, which seemed to call the young to their
duty and people the centre of the room, than she found
herself engaged to dance with a brother officer, intro-
duced by Captain Hunter.

Emma Watson was not more than of the middle
height, well made and plump, with an air of healthy
vigour. Her skin was very brown, but clear, smooth,
and glowing, which, with a lively eye, a sweet smile,
and an open countenance, gave beauty to attract,
and expression to make that beauty improve on ac-
quaintance. Having no reason to be dissatisfied
with her partner, the evening began very pleasantly
to her, and her feelings perfectly coincided with the
reiterated observation of others, that it was an ex-
cellent ball. The two first dances were not quite
over when the returning sound of carriages after a
long interruption called general notice ! — ' The Gs-
bornes are coming ! ' ' The Osbornes are coming ! '
was repeated round the room. After some minutes
of extraordinary bustle without and watchful curi-
osity within, the important party, preceded by the
attentive master of the inn, to open a door which was
never shut, made their appearance. They consisted
of Lady Osborne ; her son, Lord Osborne ; her
daughter, Miss Osborne ; Miss Carr, her daughter's
friend ; Mr. Howard, formerly tutor to Lord Osborne,
now clergyman of the parish in which the castle
stood ; Mrs. Blake, a widow sister, who lived with

il8 The Watsons.

him ; her son, a fine boy of ten years old ; and Mr.
Tom Musgrave, who probably, imprisoned within his
own room, had been listening in bitter impatience to
the sound of the music for the last half-hour. In
their progress up the room they paused almost im-
mediately behind Emma to receive the compliments
of some acquaintance, and she heard Lady Osborne
observe that they had made a point of coming early
for the gratification of Mrs. Blake's little boy, who
was uncommonly fond of dancing. Emma looked at
them all as they passed, but chiefly and with most
interest on Tom Musgrave, who was certainly a
genteel, good-looking young man. Of the females
Lady Osborne had by much the finest person ; though
nearly fifty, she was very handsome, and had all the
dignity of rank.

Lord Osborne was a very fine young man ; but
there was an air of coldness, of carelessness, even of
awkwardness about him, which seemed to speak him
out of his element in a ball-room. He came in fact
only because it was judged expedient for him to
please the borough ; he was not fond of women's
company, and he never danced. Mr. Howard was an
agreeable-looking man, a little more than thirty.

At the conclusion of the two dances, Emma found
herself, she knew not how, seated amongst the Os-
borne's set ; and she was immediately struck with
the fine countenance and animated gestures of the
little boy, as he was standing before his mother, con-
sidering when they should begin.

1 You will not be surprised at Charles's impatience.'

The Watsons. 319

said Mrs. Blake, a lively, pleasant-looking little woman
of five or six and thirty, to a lady who was standing
near her, ' when you know what a partner he is to
have. Miss Osborne has been so very kind as to
promise to dance the two first dances with him. J

' Oh, yes ! we have been engaged this week/ cried
the boy, ' and we are to dance down every couple/

On the other side of Emma, Miss Osborne, Miss
Carr, and a party of young men were standing en-
gaged in very lively consultation ; and soon after-
wards she saw the smartest officer of the set walking
off* to the orchestra to order the dance, while Miss
Osborne passing before her to her little expecting
partner, hastily said, ' Charles, I beg your pardon for
not keeping my engagement, but I am going to dance
these two dances with Colonel Beresford. I know
you will excuse me, and I will certainly dance with
you after tea ; " and without staying for an answer,
she turned again to Miss Carr, and in another minute
was led by Colonel Beresford to begin the set. If
the poor little boy's face had in its happiness been
interesting to Emma, it was infinitely more so under
this sudden reverse ; he stood the picture of disap-
pointment with crimsoned cheeks, quivering lips, and
eyes bent on the floor. His mother, stifling her own
mortification, tried to soothe his with the prospect of
Miss Osborne's second promise ; but, though he con-
trived to utter with an effort of boyish bravery, ' Oh,
I do not mind it ! ' it was very evident by the un-
ceasing agitation of his features that he minded it
as much as ever.

320 The Watsons.

Emma did not think or reflect ; she felt and acted.
' I shall be very happy to dance with you, sir, if you
like it/ said she, holding out her hand with the most
unaffected good-humour. The boy, in one moment
restored to all his first delight, looked joyfully at his
mother ; and stepping forwards with an honest, simple
* Thank you, ma'am/ was instantly ready to attend his
new acquaintance. The thankfulness of Mrs. Blake
was more diffuse ; with a look most expressive of
unexpected pleasure and lively gratitude, she turned
to her neighbour with repeated and fervent acknow-
ledgements of so great and condescending a kindness
to her boy. Emma with perfect truth could assure
her that she could not be giving greater pleasure than
she felt herself; and Charles being provided with his
gloves and charged to keep them on, they joined the
set which was now rapidly forming, with nearly equal
complacency. It was a partnership which could not
be noticed without surprise. It gained her a broad
stare from Miss Osborne and Miss Carr as they passed
her in the dance. ' Upon my word, Charles, you are
in luck/ said the former, as she turned him ; ' you
have got a better partner than me ; ' to which the
happy Charles answered ' Yes.'

Tom Musgrave, who was dancing with Miss Carr,
gave her many inquisitive glances ; and after a time
Lord Osborne himself came, and under pretence of
talking to Charles, stood to look at his partner.
Though rather distressed by such observation, Emma
could not repent what she had done, so happy had it
made both the boy and his mother ; the latter of

T/ie Watsons. 321

whom was continually making opportunities of ad-
dressing her with the warmest civility. Her little
partner she found, though bent chiefly on dancing,
was not unwilling to speak, when her questions or
remarks gave him anything to say ; and she learnt,
by a sort of inevitable enquiry, that he had two
brothers and a sister, that they and their mamma all
lived with his uncle at Wickstead, that his uncle
taught him Latin, that he was very fond of riding,
and had a horse of his own given him by Lord
Osborne ; and that he had been out once already
with Lord Osborne's hounds.

At the end of these dances, Emma found they were
to drink tea ; Miss Edwards gave her a caution to be
at hand, in a manner which convinced her of Mrs.
Edwards' holding it very important to have them
both close to her when she moved into the tea-room ;
and Emma was accordingly on the alert to gain her
proper station. It was always the pleasure of the
company to have a little bustle and crowd when they
adjourned for refreshment. The tea-room was a
small room within the card-room ; and in passing
through the latter, where the passage was straitened
by tables, Mrs. Edwards and her party were for a
few moments hemmed in. It happened close by
Lady Osborne's casino table ; Mr. Howard, who be-
longed to it, spoke to his nephew; and Emma, on
perceiving herself the object of attention both to
Lady Osborne and him, had just turned away her
eyes in time to avoid seeming to hear her young
companion exclaim delightedly aloud, * Oh, uncle !

Y

322 The Watsoiis.

do look at my partner ; she is so pretty ! ' As
they were immediately in motion again, however,
Charles was hurried off without being able to receive
his uncle's suffrage. On entering the tea-room, in
which two long tables were prepared, Lord Osborne
was to be seen quite alone at the end of one, as if
retreating as far as he could from the ball, to enjoy
his own thoughts and gape without restraint. Charles
instantly pointed him out to Emma. ' There's Lord
Osborne, let you and I go and sit by him/

* No, no/ said Emma, laughing, ' you must sit
with my friends/

Charles was now free enough to hazard a few
questions in his turn. ' What o'clock was it ?'

' Eleven/

' Eleven ! and I am not at all sleepy. Mamma
said I should be asleep before ten. Do you think
Miss Osborne will keep her word with me when tea
is over ? '

* Oh, yes ! I suppose so ; ' though she felt that she
had no better reason to give than that Miss Osborne
had not kept it before.

' When shall you come to Osborne Castle ? '

' Never, probably. I am not acquainted with the
family/

' But you may come to Wickstead and see mamma,
and she can take you to the castle. There is a
monstrous curious stuffed fox there, and a badger,
anybody would think they were alive. It is a pity
you should not see them/

On rising from tea there was again a scramble for

The Watsons.

the pleasure of being first out of the room, which
happened to be increased by one or two of the card-
parties having just broken up, and the players being
disposed to move exactly the different way. Among
these was Mr. Howard, his sister leaning on his arm ;
and no sooner were they within reach of Emma, than
Mrs. Blake, calling her notice by a friendly touch,
said, 'Your goodness to Charles, my dear Miss
Watson, brings all his family upon you. Give me
leave to introduce my brother.' Emma curtsied, the
gentleman bowed, made a hasty request for the
honour of her hand in the two next dances, to which
as hasty an affirmative was given, and they were im-
mediately impelled in opposite directions. Emma was
very well pleased with the circumstance ; there was a
quietly cheerful, gentlemanlike air in Mr. Howard
which suited her ; and in a few minutes afterwards the
value of her engagement increased, when, as she was
sitting in the card-room, somewhat screened by a
door, she heard Lord Osborne, who was lounging on
a vacant table near her, call Tom Musgrave towards
him and say, * Why do not you dance with that beau-
tiful Emma Watson ? I want you to dance with her,
and I will come and stand by you.'

' I was determined on it this very moment, my
lord ; I'll be introduced and dance with her directly.'

' Aye, do ; and if you find she does not want much
talking to, you may introduce me by and by.'

' Very well, my lord ; if she is like her sisters she
will only want to be listened to. I will go this

324 The Watsons,

moment. I shall find her in the tea-room. That stiff
old Mrs. Edwards has never done tea.'

Away he went, Lord Osborne after him; and
Emma lost no time in hurrying from her corner
exactly the other way, forgetting in her haste that
she left Mrs. Edwards behind.

' We had quite lost you/ said Mrs. Edwards, who
followed her with Mary in less than five minutes.
1 If you prefer this room to the other there is no
reason why you should not be here, but we had better
all be together.'

Emma was saved the trouble of apologising, by
their being joined at the moment by Tom Musgrave,
who requesting Mrs. Edwards aloud to do him the
honour of presenting him to Miss Emma Watson,
left that good lady without any choice in the busi-
ness, but that of testifying by the coldness of her
manner that she did it unwillingly. The honour of
dancing with her was solicited without loss of time,
and Emma, however she might like to be thought a
beautiful girl by lord or commoner, was so little dis-
posed to favour Tom Musgrave himself that she had
considerable satisfaction in avowing her previous en-
gagement. He was evidently surprised and discom-
posed. The style of her last partner had probably
led him to believe her not overpowered with applica-
tions.

'My little friend, Charles Blake/ he cried, 'must
not expect to engross you the whole evening. We
can never suffer this. It is against the rules of the
assembly, and I am sure it will never be patronised

The Watsons. 325

by our good friend here, Mrs. Edwards; she is by
much too nice a judge of decorum to give her license
to such a dangerous particularity '

' I am not going to dance with Master Blake, sir!'

The gentleman, a little disconcerted, could only
hope he might be fortunate another time, and seem-
ing unwilling to leave her, though his friend, Lord
Osborne, was waiting in the doorway for the result,
as Emma with some amusement perceived, he began
to make civil enquiries after her family.

' How comes it that we have not the pleasure of
seeing your sisters here this evening ? Our assemblies
have been used to be so well treated by them that we
do not know how to take this neglect/

' My eldest sister is the only one at home, and she
could not leave my father/

* Miss Watson the only one at home ! You astonish
me ! It seems but the day before yesterday that I
saw them all three in this town. But I am afraid I
have been a very sad neighbour of late. I hear dread-
ful complaints of my negligence wherever I go, and I
confess it is a shameful length of time since I was at
Stanton. But I shall now endeavour to make myself
amends for the past/

Emma's calm curtsey in reply must have struck
him as very unlike the encouraging warmth he had
been used to receive from her sisters, and gave him
probably the novel sensation of doubting his own in-
fluence, and of wishing for more attention than she
bestowed. The dancing now recommenced ; Miss
Carr being impatient to call, everybody was required

326 The Watsons.

to stand up ; and Tom Musgrave's curiosity was ap-
peased on seeing Mr. Howard come forward and
claim Emma's hand.

' That will do as well for me/ was Lord Osborne's
remark, when his friend carried him the news, and he
was continually at Howard's elbow during the two
dances.

•The frequency of his appearance there was the only
unpleasant part of the engagement, the only objection
she could make to Mr. Howard. In himself, she
thought him as agreeable as he looked ; though chat-
ting on the commonest topics, he had a sensible, unaf-
fected way of expressing himself, which made them all
worth hearing, and she only regretted that he had not
been able to make his pupil's manners as unexcep-
tionable as his own. The two dances seemed very
short, and she had her partners authority for con-
sidering them so. At their conclusion, the Osbornes
and their train were all on the move.

' We are off at last/ said his lordship to Tom ;
' How much longer do you stay in this heavenly
place ? — till sunrise V

1 No, faith ! my lord ; I have had quite enough of it,
I assure you. I shall not show myself here again
when I have had the honour of attending Lady Os-
borne to her carriage. I shall retreat in as much
secrecy as possible to the most remote corner of the
house, where I shall order a barrel of oysters, and be
famously snug.'

' Let me see you soon at the castle, and bring me
word how she looks by daylight.'

TJie Watsons. 327

Emma and Mrs. Blake parted as old acquaintance,
and Charles shook her by the hand, and wished her
goodbye at least a dozen times. From Miss Osborne
and Miss Carr she received something like a jerking
curtsey as they passed her ; even Lady Osborne gave
her a look of complacency, and his lordship actually
came back after the others were out of the room, to
' beg her pardon/ and look in the window-seat behind
her for the gloves which were visibly compressed in
his hand. As Tom Musgrave was seen no more, we
may suppose his plan to have succeeded, and imagine
him mortifying with his barrel of oysters in dreary
solitude, or gladly assisting the landlady in her bar to
make fresh negus for the happy dancers above.
Emma could not help missing the party by whom
she had been, though in some respects unpleasantly,
distinguished, and the two dances which followed and
concluded the ball were rather flat in comparison with
the others. Mr. Edwards having played with good
luck, they were some of the last in the room.

' Here we are back again, I declare,' said Emma
sorrowfully, as she walked into the dining-room, where
the table was prepared, and the neat upper maid was
lighting the candles.

1 My dear Miss Edwards, how soon it is at an end !
I wish it could all come over again.'

A great deal of kind pleasure was expressed in her
having enjoyed the evening so much ; and Mr. Ed-
wards was as warm as herself in the praise of the
fulness, brilliancy, and spirit of the meeting, though
as he had been fixed the whole time at the same

328 The Watsons.

table in the same room, with only one change of
chairs, it might have seemed a matter scarcely per-
ceived ; but he had won four rubbers out of five, and
everything went well. His daughter felt the advan-
tage of this gratified state of mind, in the course of
the remarks and retrospections which now ensued
over the welcome soup.

' How came you not to dance with either of the
Mr. Tomlinsons, Mary ? ' said her mother.

' 1 was always engaged when they asked me/

' I thought you were to have stood up with Mr.
James the two last dances; Mrs. Tomlinson told me
he was gone to ask you, and I had heard you say two
minutes before that you were not engaged/

' Yes, but there was a mistake ; I had misunder-
stood. I did not know I was engaged. I thought it
had been for the two dances after, if we stayed so long;
but Captain Hunter assured me it was for those very
two/

f So you ended with Captain Hunter, Mary, did
you?' said her father. 'And whom did you begin
with V

' Captain Hunter/ was repeated in a very humble
tone.

' Hum ! That is being constant, however. But
who else did you dance with ?'

1 Mr. Norton and Mr. Styles/

' And who are they ?'

1 Mr. Norton is a cousin of Captain Hunter's/

'And who is Mr. Styles V

' One of his particular friends/

The Watsons. 329

'All in the same regiment/ added Mrs. Edwards.
4 Mary was surrounded by red-coats all the evening.
I should have been better pleased to see her dancing
with some of our old neighbours, I confess.'

'Yes, yes; we must not neglect our old neighbours.
But if these soldiers are quicker than other people in
a ball-room, what are young ladies to do ?'

* I think there is no occasion for their engaging
themselves so many dances beforehand, Mr. Ed-
wards/

' No, perhaps not; but I remember, my dear, when
you and I did the same/

Mrs. Edwards said no more, and Mary breathed
again. A good deal of good-humoured pleasantry
followed, and Emma went to bed in charming spirits,
her head full of Osbornes, Blakes, and Howards.

The next morning brought a great many visitors. It
was the way of the place always to call on Mrs. Ed-
wards the morning after a ball, and this neighbourly
inclination was increased in the present instance by a
general spirit of curiosity on Emma's account, as
everybody wanted to look again at the girl who had
been admired the night before by Lord Osborne.
Many were the eyes, and various the degrees of ap-
probation with which she was examined. Some saw
no fault, and some no beauty. With some her brown
skin was the annihilation of every grace, and others
could never be persuaded that she was half so hand-
some as Elizabeth Watson had been ten years ago.
The morning passed quickly away in discussing the
merits of the ball with all this succession of company,

330 The Watsons.

and Emma was at once astonished by finding it two
o'clock, and considering that she had heard nothing
of her father's chair. After this discovery she had
walked twice to the window to examine the street,
and was on the point of asking leave to ring the bell
and make enquiries, when the light sound of a car-
riage driving up to the door set her heart at ease.
She stepped again to the window, but instead of the
convenient though very un-smart family equipage
perceived a neat curricle. Mr. Musgrave was shortly
afterwards announced, and Mrs. Edwards put on her
very stiffest look at the sound. Not at all dismayed,,
however, by her chilling air, he paid his compliments
to each of the ladies with no unbecoming ease, and
continuing to address Emma presented her a note,
which ' he had the honour of bringing from her sister,
but to which he must observe a verbal postscript from
himself would be requisite/

The note, which Emma was beginning to read
rather before Mrs. Edwards had entreated her to use
no ceremony, contained a few lines from Elizabeth
importing that their father, in consequence of being
unusually well, had taken the sudden resolution of
attending the visitation that day, and that as his road
lay quite wide from D. it was impossible for her to
come home till the following morning, unless the
Edwards would send her, which was hardly to be
expected, or she could meet with any chance convey-
ance, or did not mind walking so far. She had
scarcely run her eye through the whole, before she

The Watsons. 331

found herself obliged to listen to Tom Musgrave's
further account.

' I received that note from the fair hands of Miss
Watson only ten minutes ago,' said he ; ' I met her
in the village of Stanton, whither my good stars
prompted me to turn my horses' heads. She was at
that moment in quest of a person to employ on the
errand, and I was fortunate enough to convince her
that she could not find a more willing or speedy mes-
senger than myself. Remember, I say nothing of my
disinterestedness. My reward is to be the indulgence
of conveying you to Stanton in my curricle. Though
they are not written down, I bring your sister's orders
for the same.'

Emma felt distressed ; she did not like the proposal
— she did not wish to be on terms of intimacy with
the proposer ; and yet, fearful of encroaching on the
Edwards, as well as wishing to go home herself, she
was at a loss how entirely to decline what he offered.
Mrs. Edwards continued silent, either not under-
standing the case, or waiting to see how the young
lady's inclination lay. Emma thanked him, but pro-
fessed herself very unwilling to give him so much
trouble. ' The trouble was of course honour, plea-
sure, delight — what had he or his horses to do ? ' Still
she hesitated — ' She believed she must beg leave to
decline his assistance ; she was rather afraid of the
sort of carriage. The distance was not beyond a
walk/ Mrs. Edwards was silent no longer. She
enquired into the particulars, and then said, ' We
shall be extremely happy, Miss Emma, if you can

332 The Watsons.

give us the pleasure of your company till to-morrow;
but if you cannot conveniently do so, our carriage is
quite at your service, and Mary will be pleased with
the opportunity of seeing your sister.'

This was precisely what Emma had longed for,
and she accepted the offer most thankfully, acknow-
ledging that as Elizabeth was entirely alone, it was
her wish to return home to dinner. The plan was
warmly opposed by their visitor —

' I cannot suffer it, indeed. I must not be deprived
of the happiness of escorting you. I assure you there
is not a possibility of fear with my horses. You might
guide them yourself. Your sisters all know how quiet
they are ; they have none of them the smallest scruple
in trusting themselves with me, even on a race-course.
Believe me/ added he, lowering his voice, 'you are'
quite safe — the danger is only mine!

Emma was not more disposed to oblige him for all
this.

* And as to Mrs. Edwards' carriage being used the
day after a ball, it is a thing quite out of rule, I
assure you — never heard of before. The old coach-
man will look as black as his horses — won't he, Miss
Edwards ?'

No notice was taken. The ladies were silently
firm, and the gentleman found himself obliged to
submit

' What a famous ball we had last night/ he cried,
after a short pause ; ' How long did you keep it up
after the Osbornes and I went away ? '

' We had two dances more.'

The Watsons. 333

' It is making it too much of a fatigue, I think, to
stay so late. I suppose your set was not a very full
one/

' Yes ; quite as full as ever, except the Osbornes.
There seemed no vacancy anywhere ; and everybody
danced with uncommon spirit to the very last.'

Emma said this, though against her conscience.

' Indeed ! perhaps I might have looked in upon
you again, if I had been aware of as much ; for I am
rather fond of dancing than not. Miss Osborne is a
charming girl, is not she ? '

' I do not think her handsome/ replied Emma, to
whom all this was chiefly addressed.

' Perhaps she is not critically handsome, but her
manners are delightful. And Fanny Carr is a most
interesting little creature. You can imagine nothing
more naive or piquante ; and what do you think of
Lord Osborne, Miss Watson ?'

1 He would be handsome even though he were not
a lord, and, perhaps, better bred ; more desirous of
pleasing and showing himself pleased in a right
place/

' Upon my word, you are severe upon my friend !
I assure you Lord Osborne is a very good fellow/

' I do not dispute his virtues, but I do not like his
careless air/

1 If it were not a breach of confidence/ replied
Tom, with an important look, ' perhaps I might be
able to win a more favourable opinion of poor
Osborne/

Emma gave him no encouragement, and he was

334 The Watsons.

obliged to keep his friend's secret. He was also
obliged to put an end to his visit, for Mrs. Edwards
having ordered her carriage there was no time to be
lost on Emma's side in preparing for it. Miss Ed-
wards accompanied her home ; but as it was dinner
hour at Stanton stayed with them only a few minutes.

' Now, my dear Emma/ said Miss Watson, as soon
as they were alone, ' you must talk to me all the rest
of the day without stopping, or I shall not be satis-
fied ; but, first of all, Nanny shall bring in the dinner.
Poor thing ! You will not dine as you did yesterday,
for we have nothing but some fried beef. How nice
Mary Edwards looks in her new pelisse ! And now
tell me how you like them all, and what I am to say
to Sam. I have begun my letter ; Jack Stokes is to
call for it to-morrow, for his uncle is going within a
mile of Guildford next day/

Nanny brought in the dinner.

' We will wait upon ourselves/ continued Elizabeth,
i and then we shall lose no time. And so you would
not come home with Tom Musgrave ?'

' No, you had said so much against him that I
could not wish either for the obligation or the inti-
macy which the use of his carriage must have created.
I should not even have liked the appearance of it.'

' You did very right ; though I wonder at your for-
bearance, and I do not think I could have done it
myself. He seemed so eager to fetch you that I
could not say no, though it rather went against me to
be throwing you together, so well as I knew his
tricks ; but I did long to see you, and it was a clever

TJic Watsons. 33$

way of getting you home. Besides, it won't do to be
too nice. Nobody could have thought of the Ed-
wards letting you have their coach, after the horses
being out so late. But what am I to say to Sam ? '

' If you are guided by me you will not encourage
him to think of Miss Edwards. The father is de-
cidedly against him, the mother shows him no favour,
and I doubt his having any interest with Mary. She
danced twice with Captain Hunter, and I think
shows him in general as much encouragement as is
consistent with her disposition, and the circumstances
she is placed in. She once mentioned Sam, and cer-
tainly with a little confusion ; but that was perhaps
merely owing to the consciousness of his liking her,
which may very probably have come to her know-
ledge/

* Oh ! dear, yes. She has heard enough of tliat
from us all. Poor Sam ! he is out of luck as well as
other people. For the life of me, Emma, I cannot
help feeling for those that are crossed in love. Well,
now begin, and give me an account of everything as
it happened.'

Emma obeyed her, and Elizabeth listened with
very little interruption till she heard of Mr. Howard
as a partner.

' Dance with Mr. Howard. Good heavens ! You
don't say so ! Why he is quite one of the great and
grand ones. Did you not find him very high V

' His manners are of a kind to givo me much more
ease and confidence than Tom MusgraveV

' Well, go on. I should have been frightened out

336 The Watsons.

of my wits to have had anything to do with the
Osborne's set/

Emma concluded her narration.

' And so you really did not dance with Tom Mus-
grave at all ; but you must have liked him — you must
have been struck with him altogether/

' I do not like him, Elizabeth. I allow his person
and air to be good ; and that his manners to a certain
point — his address rather — is pleasing. But I see
nothing else to admire in him. On the contrary, he
seems very vain, very conceited, absurdly anxious for
distinction, and absolutely contemptible in some of
the measures he takes for being so. There is a ridi-
culousness about him that entertains me ; but his
company gives me no other agreeable emotion.'

' My dearest Emma ! You are like nobody else in
the world. It is well Margaret is not by. You do
not offend me, though I hardly know how to believe
you ; but Margaret would never forgive such words.'

' I wish Margaret could have heard him profess his
ignorance of her being out of the country; he declared
it seemed only two days since he had seen her.'

' Aye, that is just like him ; and yet this is the
man she will fancy so desperately in love with her.
He is no favourite of mine, as you well know, Emma,
but you must think him agreeable. Can you lay
your hand on your heart, and say you do not ? '

' Indeed, I can, both hands ; and spread them to
their widest extent/

'I should like to know the man you do think
agreeable/

The Watsons. 337

* His name is Howard.'

' Howard ! Dear me ; I cannot think of him but
as playing cards with Lady Osborne, and looking
proud. I must own, however, that it is a relief to me
to find you can speak as you do of Tom Musgrave,
My heart did misgive me that you would like him
too well. You talked so stoutly beforehand, that I
was sadly afraid your brag would be punished. I
only hope it will last, and that he will not come on
to pay you much attention. It is a hard thing for a
woman to stand against the flattering ways of a man
when he is bent upon pleasing her/

As their quietly sociable little meal concluded,
Miss Watson could not help observing how com-
fortably it had passed.

( It is so delightful to me/ said she, ' to have things
going on in peace and good-humour. Nobody can
tell how much I hate quarrelling. Now, though we
have had nothing but fried beef, how good it has all
seemed. I wish everybody were as easily satisfied
as you ; but poor Margaret is very snappish, and
Penelope owns she would rather have quarrelling
going on than nothing at all.'

Mr. Watson returned in the evening not the worse
for the exertion of the day, and, consequently, pleased
with what he had done, and glad to talk of it over
his own fireside. Emma had not foreseen any in-
terest to herself in the occurrences of a visitation ;
but when she heard Mr. Howard spoken of as the
preacher, and as having given them an excellent
sermon, she could not help listening with a quicker ear.

z

338 The Watsons.

4 1 do not know when I have heard a discourse
more to my mind/ continued Mr. Watson, * or one
better delivered. He reads extremely well, with
great propriety, and in a very impressive manner, and
at the same time without any theatrical grimace or
violence. I own I do not like much action in the
pulpit ; I do not like the studied air and artificial
inflexions of voice which your very popular and most
admired preachers generally have. A simple de-
livery is much better calculated to inspire devotion,
and shows a much better taste. Mr. Howard read
like a scholar and a gentleman/

' And what had you for dinner, sir ? ' said his
eldest daughter.

He related the dishes, and told* what he had ate
himself.

* Upon the whole/ he added, ' I have had a very
comfortable day. My old friends were quite sur-
prised to see me amongst them, and I must say that
everybody paid me great attention, and seemed to
feel for me as an invalid. They would make me sit
near the fire ; and as the partridges were pretty high,
Dr. Richards would have them sent away to the
other end of the table, " that they might not offend
Mr. Watson/* which I thought very kind of him.
But what pleased me as much as anything was Mr.
Howard's attention. There is a pretty steep flight of
steps up to the room we dine in, which do not quite
agree with my gouty foot, and Mr. Howard walked
by me from the bottom to the top, and would make
me take his arm. It struck me as very becoming in

The Watsons. 339

so young a man, but I am sure I had no claim to
expect it, for I never saw him before in my life. By
the by, he enquired after one of my daughters, but
I do not know which. I suppose you know among
yourselves/

On the third day after the ball, as Nanny, at five
minutes before three, was beginning to bustle into the
parlour with the tray and knife-case, she was sud-
denly called to the front door by the sound of as
smart a rap as the end of a riding whip could give ;
and though charged by Miss Watson to let nobody
in, returned in half a minute with a look of awkward
dismay to hold the parlour door open for Lord Os-
borne and Tom Musgrave. The surprise of the
young ladies may be imagined. No visitors would
have been welcome at such a moment, but such
visitors as these — such an one as Lord Osborne at
least, a nobleman and a stranger, was really dis-
tressing.

He looked a little embarrassed himself, as, on being
introduced by his easy voluble friend, he muttered
something of doing himself the honour of waiting
upon Mr. Watson. Though Emma could not but
take the compliment of the visit to herself, she was
very far from enjoying it. She felt all the incon-
sistency of such an acquaintance with the very humble
style in which they were obliged to live ; and having
in her aunt's family been used to many of the ele-
gancies of life, was fully sensible of all that must be
open to the ridicule of richer people in her present

340 The Watsons.

home. Of the pain of such feelings, Elizabeth knew
very little. Her simple mind, or juster reason, saved
her from such mortification ; and though shrinking
under a general sense of inferiority, she felt no par-
ticular shame. Mr. Watson, as the gentlemen had
already heard from Nanny, was not well enough to be
down stairs. With much concern they took their
seats ; Lord Osborne near Emma, and the convenient
Mr. Musgrave, in high spirits at his own importance,
on the other side of the fireplace with Elizabeth. He
was at no loss for words ; but when Lord Osborne
had hoped that Emma had not caught cold at the
ball he had nothing more to say for some time, and
could only gratify his eye by occasional glances at
his fair companion. Emma was not inclined to give
herself much trouble for his entertainment, and after
hard labour of mind, he produced the remark of its
being a very fine day, and followed it up with the
question of, ' Have you been walking this morning ? '

' No, my lord, we thought it too dirty/

' You should wear half-boots/ After another pause :
' Nothing sets off a neat ankle more than a half-boot ;
nankeen, galoshed with black, looks very well. Da
not you like half-boots ? '

1 Yes ; but unless they are so stout as to injure
their beauty, they are not fit for country walking/

' Ladies should ride in dirty weather. Do you
ride?'

' No, my lord/

' I wonder every lady does not ; a woman never
looks better than on horseback/

The Watsons. 341

' But every woman may not have the inclination or
the means.'

' If they knew how much it became them, they
would all have the inclination; and I fancy, Miss
Watson, when once they had the inclination, the
means would soon follow/

' Your lordship thinks we always have our own
way. That is a point on which ladies and gentlemen
have long disagreed ; but without pretending to de-
cide it, I may say that there are some circumstances
which even women cannot control. Female economy
will do a great deal, my lord, but it cannot turn a
small income into a large one.'

Lord Osborne was silenced. Her manner had
been neither sententious nor sarcastic, but there was
a something in its mild seriousness, as well as in the
words themselves, which made his lordship think ;
and when he addressed her again, it was with a de-
gree of considerate propriety totally unlike the half-
awkward, half-fearless style of his former remarks. It
was a new thing with him to wish to please a woman ;
it was the first time that he had ever felt what was
due to a woman in Emma's situation ; but as he was
wanting neither in sense nor a good disposition he
did not feel it without effect.

' You have not been long in this country, I under-
stand,' said he, in the tone of a gentleman. ' I hope
you are pleased with it'

He was rewarded by a gracious answer, and a more
liberal full view of her face than she had yet be-
stowed. Unused to exert himself, and happy in con-

34 2 The Watsons.

templating her, he then sat in silence for some
minutes longer, while Tom Musgrave was chattering
to Elizabeth ; till they were interrupted by Nanny's
approach, who, half-opening the door and putting in
her head, said —

' Please, ma'am, master wants to know why he
be'nt to have his dinner ? '

The gentlemen, who had hitherto disregarded every
symptom, however positive, of the nearness of that
meal, now jumped up with apologies, while Elizabeth
called briskly after Nanny to take up the fowls.

' I am sorry it happens so,' she added, turning good-
humouredly towards Musgrave, ' but you know what
early hours we keep.'

Tom had nothing to say for himself, he knew it
very well, and such honest simplicity, such shameless
truth, rather bewildered him. Lord Osborne's part-
ing compliments took some time, his inclination for
speech seeming to increase with the shortness of the
term for indulgence. He recommended exercise in
defiance of dirt ; spoke again in praise of half-boots ;
begged that his sister might be allowed to send
Emma the name of her shoemaker; and concluded
with saying, ( My hounds will be hunting this country
next week. I believe they will throw off at Stanton
Wood on Wednesday at nine o'clock. I mention
this in hopes of your being drawn out to see what's
going on. If the morning's tolerable, pray do us the
honour of giving us your good wishes in person/

The sisters looked on each other with astonishment
when their visitors had withdrawn.

The Watsons. 343

'Here's an unaccountable honour!' cried Elizabeth
at last. ' Who would have thought of Lord Osborne's
coming to Stanton ? He is very handsome ; but Tom
Musgrave looks all to nothing the smartest and most
fashionable man of the two. I am glad he did not
say anything to me ; I would not have had to talk to
such a great man for the world. Tom was very
agreeable, was not he ? But did you hear him ask
where Miss Penelope and Miss Margaret were, when
he first came in ? It put me out of patience. I am
glad Nanny had not laid the cloth however, it would
have looked so awkward ; just the tray did not
signify.' To say that Emma was not flattered by
Lord Osborne's visit, would be to assert a very un-
likely thing, and describe a very odd young lady ;
but the gratification was by no means unalloyed ; his
coming was a sort of notice which might please her
vanity, but did not suit her pride, and she would
rather have known that he wished the visit without
presuming to make it, than have seen him at Stanton.

Among other unsatisfactory feelings it once occurred
to her to wonder why Mr. Howard had not taken the
same privilege of coming, and accompanied his lord-
ship, but she was willing to suppose that he had
either known nothing about it, or had declined any
share in a measure which carried quite as much im-
pertinence in its form as good breeding. Mr. Watson
was very far from being delighted when he heard
what had passed ; a little peevish under immediate
pain, and ill-disposed to be pleased, he only replied,

* Pooh ! Pooh ! what occasion could there be for

344 The Watsons,

Lord Osborne's coming ? I have lived here fourteen
years without being noticed by any of the family. It
is some fooling of that idle fellow, Tom Musgrave. I
cannot return the visit. I would not if I could/
And when Tom Musgrave was met with again, he
was commissioned with a message of excuse to
Osborne Castle, on the too sufficient plea of Mr.
Watson's infirm state of health.

A week or ten days rolled quietly away after this
visit before any new bustle arose to interrupt even for
half a day the tranquil and affectionate intercourse of
the two sisters, whose mutual regard was increasing
with the intimate knowledge of each other which such
intercourse produced. The first circumstance to break
in on their security was the receipt of a letter from
Croydon to announce the speedy return of Margaret,
and a visit of two or three days from Mr. and Mrs.
Robert Watson, who undertook to bring her home,
and wished to see their sister Emma.

It was an expectation to fill the thoughts of the
sisters at Stanton and to busy the hours of one of
them at least ; for, as Jane had been a woman of
fortune, the preparations for her entertainment were
considerable ; and as Elizabeth had at all times more
goodwill than method in her guidance of the house,
she could make no change without a bustle. An
absence of fourteen years had made all her brothers
and sisters strangers to Emma, but in her expectation
of Margaret there was more than the awkwardness
of such an alienation ; she had heard things which
made her dread her return ; and the day which brought

The Watso?is. 345

the party to Stanton, seemed to her the probable
conclusion of almost all that had been comfortable in
the house.

Robert Watson was an attorney at Croydon in a
good way of business ; very well satisfied with him-
self for the same, and for having married the only
daughter of the attorney to whom he had been clerk,
with a fortune of six thousand pounds. Mrs. Robert
was not less pleased with herself for having had that
six thousand pounds and for being now in posses-
sion of a very smart house in Croydon, where she
gave genteel parties and wore fine clothes. In her
person there was nothing remarkable ; her manners
were pert and conceited. Margaret was not without
beauty; she had a slight pretty figure, and rather
wanted countenance than good features ; but the
sharp and anxious expression of her face made her
beauty in general little felt. On meeting her long-
absent sister, as on every occasion of show, her
manner was all affection and her voice all gentleness ;
continual smiles and a very slow articulation being
her constant resource when determined on pleasing.

She was now l so delighted to see dear, dear Emma/
that she could hardly speak a word in a minute.

1 1 am sure we shall be great friends/ she observed
with much sentiment as they were sitting together.
Emma scarcely knew how to answer such a proposi-
tion, and the manner in which it was spoken she could
not attempt to equal. Mrs. Robert Watson eyed her
with much familiar curiosity and triumphant compas-
sion ; the loss of the aunt's fortune was uppermost in

346 The Watsons.

her mind at the moment of meeting ; and she could
not but feel how much better it was to be the
daughter of a gentleman of property in Croydon than
the niece of an old woman who threw herself away
on an Irish captain. Robert was carelessly kind, as
became a prosperous man and a brother ; more intent
on settling with the post-boy, inveighing against the
exorbitant advance in posting, and pondering over a
doubtful halfcrown, than on welcoming a sister who
was no longer likely to have any property for him to
get the direction of.

'Your road through the village is infamous, Elizabeth/
said he ; ' worse than ever it was. By heaven ! I would
indict it if I lived near you. Who is surveyor now?'

There was a little niece at Croydon to be fondly
enquired after by the kind-hearted Elizabeth, who
regretted very much her not being of the party.

' You are very good,' replied her mother, ' and I
assure you it went very hard with Augusta to have
us come away without her. I was forced to say we
were only going to church, and promise to come back
for her directly. But you know it would not do to
bring her without her maid, and I am as particular as
ever in having her properly attended to.'

'Sweet little darling/ cried Margaret. l It quite
broke my heart to leave her.'

' Then why was you in such a hurry to run away
from her?' cried Mrs. Robert. 'You are a sad
shabby girl. I have been quarrelling with you all the
way we came, have not I ? Such a visit as this I
never heard of ! You know how glad we are to have

The Watsons. 347

any of you with us, if it be for months together ; and
I am sorry (with a witty smile) we have not been
able to make Croydon agreeable this autumn.'

' My dearest Jane, do not overpower me with your
raillery. You know what inducements I had to bring
me home. ' Spare me, I entreat you. I am no match
for your arch sallies.'

' Well, I only beg you will not set your neighbours
against the place. Perhaps Emma may be tempted
to go back with us and stay till Christmas, if you
don't put in your word/

Emma was greatly obliged. 'I assure you we
have very good society at Croydon. I do not much
attend the balls, they are rather too mixed ; but our
parties are very select and good. I had seven tables
last week in ray drawing-room.'

'Are- you fond of the country? How do you like
Stanton ? '

'Very much,' replied Emma, who thought a com-
prehensive answer « most to the purpose. She saw
that her sister-in-law despised her immediately.
•Mrs. Robert Watson was indeed wondering what
sort of a home Emma could possibly have been used
to in Shropshire, and setting it down as certain that
the aunt could never have had six thousand pounds.

' How charming Emma is,' whispered Margaret to
Mrs. Robert in her most languishing tone. Emma
was quite distressed by such behaviour ; and she did
not like it better when she heard Margaret five
minutes afterwards say to Elizabeth in a sharp, quick
accent, totally unlike the first, ' Have you heard from

348 The Watsons,

Pen since she went to Chichester ? I had a letter the
other day. I don't find she is likely to make anything
of it. I fancy she'll come back ' Miss Penelope/ as
she went/

Such she feared would be Margaret's common voice
when the novelty of her own appearance were over ;
the tone of artificial sensibility was not recommended
by the idea. The ladies were invited upstairs to pre-
pare for dinner.

' I hope you will find things tolerably comfortable,
Jane,' said Elizabeth, as she opened the door of the
spare bedchamber.

' My good creature/ replied Jane, 'use no ceremony
with me, I entreat you. I am one of those who always
take things as they find them. I hope I can put up
with a small apartment for two or three nights with-
out making a piece of work. I always wish to be
treated quite " en famille " when I come to see you.
And now I do hope you have not been getting a great
dinner for us. Remember we never eat suppers.'

' I suppose/ said Margaret rather quickly to
Emma, ' you and I are to be together ; Elizabeth
always takes care to have a room to herself.'

' No. Elizabeth gives me half hers.'

1 Oh ! ' in a softened voice, and rather mortified to
find that she was not ill-used.

* I am sorry I am not to have the pleasure of your
company, especially as it makes me nervous to be
much alone.'

Emma was the first of the females in the parlour
again ; on entering it she found her brother alone.

The Watsons. 349

' So Emma/ said he, ' you are quite a stranger at
home. It must seem odd enough for you to be here.
A pretty piece of work your Aunt Turner has made
of it ! By heaven ! A woman should never be
trusted with money. I always said she ought to
have settled something on you, as soon as her husband
died/

' But that would have been trusting me with money/
replied Emma, ' and I am a woman too/

'It might have been secured to your future use,
without your having any power over it now. What a
blow it must have been upon you ! To find yourself,
instead of heiress of 8,000/. or 9,000/., sent back a
weight upon your family, without a sixpence. I hope
the old woman will smart for it/

' Do not speak disrespectfully of her ; she was very
good to me, and if she has made an imprudent choice,
she will suffer more from it herself than I can
possibly do/

'I do not mean to distress you, but you know
everybody must think her an old fool. I thought
Turner had been reckoned an extraordinarily sensible,
clever man. How the devil came he to make such a
will ? '

' My uncle's sense is not at all impeached in my
opinion by his attachment to my aunt. She had been
an excellent wife to him. The most liberal and
enlightened minds are always the most confiding.
The event has been unfortunate, but my uncle's
memory is, if possible, endeared to me by such a
proof of tender respect for my aunt/

350 The Watsons.

' That's odd sort of talking. He might have pro-
vided decently for his widow, without leaving every-
thing that he had to dispose of, or any part of it, at
her mercy.'

' My aunt may have erred/ said Emma, warmly ;
* she has erred, but my uncle's conduct was faultless ;
I was her own niece, and he left to her the power of
providing for me.'

' But unluckily she has left the pleasure of providing
for you to your father, and without the power. That's
the long and short of the business. After keeping
you at a distance from your family for such a length
of time as must do away all natural affection among
us, and breeding you up (I suppose) in a superior
style, you are returned upon their hands without a
sixpence.'

'You know,' replied Emma, struggling with her
tears, ' my uncle's melancholy state of health. He
was a greater invalid than my father. He could not
leave home.'

' I do not mean to make you cry,' said Robert,
rather softened — and after a short silence, by way of
changing the subject, he added : ' I am just come from
my father's room ; he seems very indifferent. It will
be a sad break up when he dies. Pity you can none
of you get married ! You must come to Croydon as
well as the rest, and see what you can do there. I
believe if Margaret had had a thousand or fifteen
hundred pounds, there was a young man who would
have thought of her.'

Emma was glad when they were joined by the

The Watsons. 35 r

others ; it was better to look at her sister-in-law's
finery than listen to Robert, who had equally irritated
and grieved her. Mrs. Robert, exactly as smart as
she had been at her own party, came in with apologies
for her dress.

' I would not make you wait,' said she, ' so I put
on the first thing I met with. I am afraid I am a sad
figure. My dear Mr, W. (addressing her husband),
you have not put any fresh powder in your hair/

' No, I do not intend it. I think there is powder
enough in my hair for my wife and sisters.'

' Indeed, you ought to make some alteration in your
dress before dinner when you are out visiting, though
you do not at home.'

' Nonsense/

'It is very odd you do not like to do what other
gentlemen do. Mr. Marshall and Mr. Hemming change
their dress every day of their lives before dinner.
And what was the use of my putting up your last new
coat, if you are never to wear it ? '

' Do be satisfied with being fine yourself and leave
your husband alone/

To put an end to this altercation and soften the evi-
dent vexation of her sister-in-law, Emma (though in no
spirits to make such nonsense easy), began to admire
her gown. It produced immediate complacency.

' Do you like it ? ' said she. ' I am very happy. It
has been excessively admired, but sometimes I think
the pattern too large. I shall wear one to-morrow
which I think you will prefer to this. Have you
seen the one I gave Margaret ? '

352 The Watsons.

Dinner came, and except when Mrs. Robert looked
at her husband's head, she continued gay and flippant,
chiding Elizabeth for the profusion on the table, and
absolutely protesting against the entrance of the roast
turkey, which formed the only exception to ' you see
your dinner.' ' I do beg and entreat that no turkey may
be seen to-day. I am really frightened out of my
wits with the number of dishes we have already. Let
us have no turkey I beseech you.'

' My dear,' replied Elizabeth, ' the turkey is roasted,
and it may just as well come in as stay in the kitchen.
Besides, if it is cut, I am in hopes my father may be
tempted to eat a bit, for it is rather a favourite dish/

' You may have it in, my dear, but I assure you I
shan't touch it'

Mr. Watson had not been well enough to join the
party at dinner, but was prevailed on to come down
and drink tea with them.

1 1 wish he may be able to have a game of cards,
to-night,' said Elizabeth to Mrs. Robert, after seeing
her father comfortably seated in his arm-chair.

' Not on my account, my dear, I beg. You know
I am no card-player. I think a snug chat infinitely
better. I always say cards are very well sometimes
to break a formal circle, but one never wants them
among friends/

1 1 was thinking of it's being something to amuse
my father/ said Elizabeth, ' if it was not disagreeable
to you. He says his head won't bear whist, but per-
haps if we make a round game he may be tempted to
sit down with us/

T/ie Watsons. 353

'By all means, my dear creature, I am quite at
your service, only do not oblige me to choose the
game, that's all. Speculation is the only round game
at Croydon now, but I can play anything. When
there is only one or two of you at home, you must be
quite at a loss to amuse him. Why do you not get
him to play at cribbage? Margaret and I have
played at cribbage most nights that we have not been
engaged/

A sound like a distant carriage was at this moment
caught ; everybody listened ; it became more decided ;
it certainly drew nearer. It was an unusual sound for
Stanton at any time of the day, for the village was on
no very public road, and contained no gentleman's
family but the rector's. The wheels rapidly approached;
in two minutes the general expectation was answered ;
they stopped beyond a doubt at the garden-gate of the
parsonage. Who could it be ? It was certainly a
postchaise. Penelope was the only creature to be
thought of ; she might perhaps have met with some
unexpected opportunity of returning. A pause of
suspense ensued. Steps were distinguished along the
paved footway, which led under the window of the
house to the front door, and then within the passage.
They were the steps of a man. It could not be
Penelope. It must be Samuel. The door opened,
and displayed Tom Musgrave in the wrap of a
traveller. He had been in London and was now on
his way home, and he had come half-a-mile out of his
road merely to call for ten minutes at Stanton. He
loved to take people by surprise with sudden visits at

A A

354 The Watsons.

extraordinary seasons, and, in the present instance, he
had the additional motive of being able to tell the
Miss Watsons, whom he depended on finding sitting
quietly employed after tea, that he was going home
fro an eight o'clock dinner.

As it happened, he did not give more surprise than
he received, when, instead of being shown into the usual
little sitting-room, the door of the best parlour (a foot
larger each way than the other) was thrown open, and
he beheld a circle of smart people, whom he could not
immediately recognise, arranged with all the honours
of visiting round the fire, and Miss Watson seated at
the best Pembroke table, with the best tea-things
before her. He stood a few seconds in silent amaze-
ment ' Musgrave,' ejaculated Margaret, in a tender
voice. He recollected himself, and came forward,
delighted to find such a circle of friends, and blessing
his good fortune for the unlooked-for indulgence. He
shook hands with Robert, bowed and smiled to the
ladies, and did everything very prettily, but as to any
particularity of address or emotion towards Margaret,
Emma, who closely observed him, perceived nothing
that did not justify Elizabeth's opinion, though Mar-
garet's modest smiles imported that she meant to take
the visit to herself. He was persuaded without much
difficulty to throw off his great coat and drink tea
with them. For 'whether he dined at eight or nine/
as he observed, 'was a matter of very little conse-
quence;' and without seeming to seek he did not turn
away from the chair close by Margaret, which she
was assiduous in providing him. She had thus secured

The Watsons. 355

him from her sisters, but it was not immediately in
her power to preserve him from her brother's claims ;
for as he came avowedly from London, and had left
it only four hours ago, the last current report as to
public news, and the general opinion of the day, must
be understood before Robert could let his attention
be yielded to the less rational and important demands
of the women. At last, however, he was at liberty to
hear Margaret's soft address, as she spoke her fears of
his having had a most terrible cold, dark, dreadful
journey —

1 Indeed, you should not have set out so late.'

' I could not be earlier,' he replied. ' I was detained
chatting at the Bedford by a friend. All hours are
alike to me. How long have you been in the country
Miss Margaret?'

'We only came this morning; my kind brother
and sister brought me home this very morning. Tis
singular — is not it ?'

' You were gone a great while, were not you ? A
fortnight, I suppose ? '

' You may call a fortnight a great while, Mr. Mus-
grave,' said Mrs. Robert, sharply ; ' but we think a
month very little. I assure you we bring her home
at the end of a month much against our will.'

' A month ! Have you really been gone a month ?
'Tis amazing how time flies.'

'You may imagine,' said Margaret, in a sort of
whisper, ' what are my sensations in finding myself
once more at Stanton ; you know what a sad visitor I
make. And I was so excessively impatient to see

35 6 The Watsons.

Emma ; I dreaded the meeting, and at the same time
longed for it. Do you not comprehend the sort of
feeling V

' Not at all/ cried he, aloud ; ' I could never dread
a meeting with Miss Emma Watson, or any of her
sisters/

It was lucky that he added that finish.

' Were you speaking to me V said Emma, who had
caught her own name.

' Not absolutely/ he answered ; ' but I was thinking
of you, as many at a greater distance are probably
doing at this moment. Fine open weather, Miss
Emma — charming season for hunting/

' Emma is delightful, is not she ? * whispered Mar-
garet ; ' I have found her more than answer my
warmest hopes. Did you ever see anything more
perfectly beautiful ? I think even you must be a con-
vert to a brown complexion/

He hesitated. Margaret was fair herself, and he
did not particularly want to compliment her; but
Miss Osborne and Miss Carr were likewise fair, and
his devotion to them carried the day.

'Your sister's complexion/ said he, at last, 'is as
fine as a dark complexion can be ; but I still profess
my preference of a white skin. You have seen Miss
Osborne ? She is my model for a truly feminine com-
plexion, and she is very fair/

' Is she fairer than me V

Tom made no reply. ' Upon my honour, ladies/
said he, giving a glance over his own person, ' I am
highly indebted to your condescension for admitting

The Watsons. 357

me in such dishabille into your drawing-room. I
really did not consider how unfit I was to be here, or
I hope I should have kept my distance. Lady Os-
borne would tell me that I was growing as careless as
her son if she saw me in this condition/

The ladies were not wanting in civil returns, and
R obert Watson, stealing a view of his own head in an
opposite glass, said with equal civility —

'You cannot be more in dishabille than myself.
We got here so late that I had not time even to put
a little fresh powder into my hair/

Emma could not help entering into what she sup-
posed her sister-in-law's feelings at the moment

When the tea-things were removed, Tom began to
talk of his carriage ; but the old card-table being set
out, and the fish and counters, with a tolerably clean
pack brought forward from the buffet by Miss Watson,
the general voice was so urgent with him to join their
party that he agreed to allow himself another quarter
of an hour. Even Emma was pleased that he would
stay, for she was beginning to feel that a family party
might be the worst of all parties ; and the others were
delighted.

' What's your game V cried he, as they stood round
the table.

1 Speculation, I believe/ said Elizabeth. ' My sister
recommends it, and I fancy we all like it I know
you do, Tom.'

' It is the only round game played at Croydon now/
said Mrs. Robert ; ' we never think of any other. I
am glad it is a favourite with you/

358 The Watsons.

' Oh ! me* said Tom. ' Whatever you decide on
will be a favourite with me. I have had some pleasant
hours at speculation in my time; but I have not been
in the way of it for a long while. Vingt-un is the
game at Osborne Castle. I have played nothing but
vingt-un of late. You would be astonished to hear
the noise we make there — the fine old lofty drawing-
room rings again. Lady Osborne sometimes declares
she cannot hear herself speak. Lord Osborne enjoys it
famously, and he makes the best dealer without excep-
tion that I ever beheld — such quickness and spirit, he
lets nobody dream over their cards. I wish you could
see him over-draw himself on both his own cards. It
is worth anything in the world ! '

'Dear me!' cried Margaret, 'why should not we
play vingt-un ? I think it is a much better game
than speculation. I cannot say I am very fond of
speculation.'

Mrs. Robert offered not another word in support of
the game. She was quite vanquished, and the
fashions of Osborne Castle carried it over the fashions
of Croydon.

' Do you see much of the parsonage family at the
castle, Mr. Musgrave ?' said Emma, as they were
taking their seats.

' Oh ! yes ; they are almost always there. Mrs.
Blake is a nice little goodhumoured woman ; she and
I are sworn friends ; and Howard's a very gentleman-
like good sort of fellow. You are not forgotten, I
assure you, by any of the party. I fancy you must
have a little cheek-glowing now and then, Miss

Tke Watsons. 359

Emma. Were not you rather warm last Saturday
about nine or ten o'clock in the evening ? I will tell
you how it was — I see you are dying to know. Says
Howard to Lord Osborne '

At this interesting moment he was called on by
the others to regulate the game, and determine some
disputable point ; and his attention was so totally
engaged in the business, and afterwards by the course
of the game, as never to revert to what he had been
saying before; and Emma, though suffering a good
deal from curiosity, dared not remind him.

He proved a very useful addition at their table.
Without him it would have been a party of such
very near relations as could have felt little interest,
and perhaps maintained little complaisance, but his
presence gave variety and secured good manners. He
was, in fact, excellently qualified to shine at a round
game, and few situations made him appear to greater
advantage. He played with spirit, and had a great
deal to say ; and though no wit himself, could some-
times make use of the wit of an absent friend, and
had a lively way of retailing a common-place, or say-
ing a mere nothing, that had great effect at a card-
table. The ways and good jokes of Osborne Castle
were now added to his ordinary means of entertain-
ment. He repeated the smart sayings of one lady,
detailed the oversights of another, and indulged them
even with a copy of Lord Osborne's overdrawing him-
self on both cards.

The clock struck nine while he was thus agreeably
occupied; and when Nanny came in with her master's

360 The Watsons.

basin of gruel, he had the pleasure of observing to
Mr. Watson that he should leave him at supper while
he went home to dinner himself. The carriage was
ordered to the door, and no entreaties for his staying
longer could now avail ; for he well knew that if he
stayed he would have to sit down to supper in less
than ten minutes, which to a man whose heart had
been long fixed on calling his next meal a dinner,
was quite insupportable. On finding him determined
to go, Margaret began to wink and nod at Elizabeth
to ask him to dinner for the following day, and Eliza-
beth at last, not able to resist hints which her own
hospitable social temper more than half seconded,
gave the invitation — 'Would he give Robert the
meeting, they should be very happy ? '

' With the greatest pleasure/ was his first reply. In
a moment afterwards, ' That is, if I can possibly get
here in time ; but I shoot with Lord Osborne, and
therefore must not engage. You will not think of me
unless you see me/ And so he departed, delighted
in the uncertainty in which he had left it.

Margaret, in the joy of her heart, under circum-
stances which she chose to consider as peculiarly pro-
pitious, would willingly have made a confidante of
Emma when they were alone for a short time the
next morning, and had proceeded so far as to say,
4 The young man who was here last night, my dear
Emma, and returns to-day, is more interesting to me
than perhaps you may be aware;' but Emma, pre-
tending to understand nothing extraordinary in the

The Watsons. 361

words, made some very inapplicable reply, and jump-
ing up, ran away from a subject which was odious to
her. As Margaret would not allow a doubt to be
repeated of Musgrave's coming to dinner, preparations
were made for his entertainment much exceeding
what had been deemed necessary the day before ;
and taking the office of superintendence entirely from
her sister, she was half the morning in the kitchen
herself, directing and scolding.

After a great deal of indifferent cooking and anxious
suspense, however, they were obliged to sit down
without their guest. Tom Musgrave never came;
and Margaret was at no pains to conceal her vexation
under the disappointment, or repress the peevishness
of her temper. The peace of the party for the re-
mainder of that day and the whole of the next, which
comprised the length of Robert and Jane's visit, was
continually invaded by her fretful displeasure and
querulous attacks. Elizabeth was the usual object of
both. Margaret had just respect enough for her
brother's and • sister's opinion to behave properly by
tliem, but Elizabeth and the maids could never do
right ; and Emma, whom she seemed no longer to
think about, found the continuance of the gentle voice
beyond calculation short. Eager to be as little among
them as possible, Emma was delighted with the alter-
native of sitting above with her father, and warmly
entreated to be his constant companion each evening;
.and as Elizabeth loved company of any kind too
well not to prefer being below at all risks ; as she had
rather talk of Croydon with Jane, with every inter-

362 The Watsons.

ruption of Margaret's perverseness, than sit with only
her father, who frequently could not endure talking
at all, the affair was so settled, as soon as she could
be persuaded to believe it no sacrifice on her sister's
part. To Emma the change was most acceptable and
delightful. Her father, if ill, required little more than
gentleness and silence, and being a man of sense and
education, was, if able to converse, a welcome com-
panion. In his chamber Emma was at peace from
the dreadful mortifications of unequal society and
family discord ; from the immediate endurance of
hard-hearted prosperity, low-minded conceit, and
wrong-headed folly, engrafted on an untoward dis-
position. She still suffered from them in the contem-
plation of their existence, in memory and in prospect,
but for the moment she ceased to be tortured by their
effects. She was at leisure ; she could read and think,
though her situation was hardly such as to make re-
flection very soothing. The evils arising from the loss
of her uncle were neither trifling nor likely to lessen ;
and when thought had been freely indulged in con-
trasting the past and the present, the employment of
mind and dissipation of unpleasant ideas, which only
reading could produce, made her thankfully turn to a
book.

The change in her home society and style of life,
in consequence of the death of one friend and the
imprudence of another, had indeed been striking.
From being the first object of hope and solicitude to
an uncle who had formed her mind with the care of a
parent, and of tenderness to an aunt whose amiable

The Watsons. 363

temper had delighted to give her every indulgence \
from being the life and spirit of a house where all
had been comfort and elegance, and the expected
heiress of an easy independence, she was become of
importance to no one — a burden on those whose affec-
tions she could not expect, an addition in a house
already overstocked, surrounded by inferior minds,
with little chance of domestic comfort, and as little
hope of future support. It was well for her that she
was naturally cheerful, for the change had been such
as might have plunged weak spirits in despondence.

She was very much pressed by Robert and Jane to
return with them to Croydon, and had some difficulty
in getting a refusal accepted, as they thought too
highly of their own kindness and situation to suppose
the offer could appear in less advantageous light to
anybody else. Elizabeth gave them her interest,
though evidently against her own, in privately urging
Emma to go.

' You do not know what you refuse, Emma/ said
she, ' nor what you have to bear at home. I would
advise you by all means to accept the invitation ;
there is always something lively going on at Croydon.
You will be in company almost every day, and Robert
and Jane will be very kind to you. As for me, I
shall be no worse off without you than I have been
used to be ; but poor Margaret's disagreeable ways
are new to you, and they would vex you more than
you think for, if you stay at home.'

Emma was of course uninfluenced, except to greater

364 The Watsons.

esteem for Elizabeth, by such representations, and the
visitors departed without her.

When the author's sister, Cassandra, showed the
manuscript of this work to some of her nieces, she
also told them something of the intended story ; for
with this dear sister — though, I believe, with no one
else — Jane seems to have talked freely of any work
that she might have in hand. Mr. Watson was soon
to die ; and Emma to become dependent for a home
on her narrow-minded sister-in-law and brother. She
was to decline an offer of marriage from Lord Osborne,
and much of the interest of the tale was to arise from
Lady Osborne's love for Mr. Howard, and his counter
affection for Emma, whom he was finally to marry.

LONDON : PRINTED BY

SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE

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